


Prosopagnosia

by misseditallagain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Cognitive Disorder, Depression, Family, Firefighter Dean, Gas-N-Sip, Kid Fic, M/M, Prosopagnosia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-26 09:49:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5000164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misseditallagain/pseuds/misseditallagain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I could turn around right now and I wouldn’t be able to spot you out of a lineup. There is nothing remarkable about you I could identify and say: there, that is Dean.”</p><p>“So you mean I’m not just another pretty face?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prosopagnosia is a cognitive disorder that affects a person’s ability to recognize human faces. As many as one in fifty people may be prosopagnosic along a wide scale, some more severe than others.
> 
> Prosopagnosics learn to recognize people around them via secondary clues such as: clothing, gait, hair color, body shape, and voice. They often cannot recognize close friends or family members, especially when not expecting to see them. Some have trouble seeing facial expression unless exaggerated. 
> 
> Congenital, or developmental, prosopagnosia affects a person from birth. Many children suffer in their social and educational development due to lack of information and survival strategies. 
> 
> I am not a prosopagnosic, nor is anyone I know personally. However, I’ve tried to do my homework as best as I can within the limited information available on this particular subject. If anything in the following piece of fiction appears misinformed, please let me know and I will do my best to correct it. 
> 
> Artwork by the loveliest [kai-art](http://kai-art.tumblr.com)  
> Beta'ed by [Wendolynn_T](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Wendolynn_T/pseuds/Wendolynn_T)
> 
> Feel free to follow me on tumblr @ [misseditallagain](http://misseditallagain.tumblr.com)

 

 

Her bright red hair is cropped short, and Castiel's thankful, because that's the only way he's going to be able to tell her apart from Anna. Not that he expects to see his sister and his new—well, _Charlie_ —in the same place anytime soon. But with Anna's adamancy on his sticking with the job, maybe he should be more aware of the possibility.

“Right, so we'll find another nametag later, Cas.” Charlie pins a tag to his brand new blue smock-vest. It matches hers right down to the little scuffmark in the corner, but while Charlie's shows her name, his just reads _Steve_. It's going to make his life a thousand times more confusing, but he doesn't have it in him to explain anything just yet. They think he's bad with faces, so he leaves it at that for now.

“Lookin’ good, Trainee,” Charlie steps back with a grin.

Castiel stares, committing more things about her to memory. She's a little on the short side, maybe just at average, and she tends to bounce on the balls of her feet when she stands in place for too long. The shirt she wears under her vest is a garish neon yellow and he hopes it's a trend. It'll be easier to pick her out of a crowd.

Not that they'll ever have a crowd in the Parker Street _Gas-n-Sip_.

He doesn't particularly relish the prospect of this new job, but Anna claims it'll be good for his social skills. Castiel doesn't think she quite gets it yet though. Probably hasn't since he was first diagnosed, though it's been nearly fifteen years. But no matter how he dislikes it, it's not like he can sit around watching cartoons with Gabriel all day. Not when the kid is gone to school.

He misses the summer. The days they spent together on the couch or in the tree house in the backyard; the kitten they'd saved from the rain gutter, the ant army they'd rerouted from the garage to the garbage cans. Gabe's easier to read than anyone else, but children usually are.

“You okay there, pal?” It takes a moment to notice that Charlie is, in fact, speaking to him. Her head's cocked to the right as his is to the left and oh, he's spacing out again.

“Fine,” he says, straightening up. He can feel the heat rising on his cheeks and he looks over to the line of coolers where one old lady meticulously looks through the few cartons of eggs they have on hand. He's learned to let that be his go-to response.

“No matter, you'll be a pro by the end of the day,” Charlie announces, pulling an arm over his shoulder and leading him back to the front. They pass by Chuck at the register, hiding behind a legal pad and a sharpie marker. Castiel only knows it's him from the same blue smock. The nametag helps too.

“Now, this is your snack aisle. Remember it well, young padawan. And this right here is your pick me up essentials. Loaf of bread, jars of peanut butter—all the things you can't live without. And over here we have yards upon yards of potato chips...” So on and so on.

Once Charlie's made him memorize the layout of a store he's seen a hundred times, he's made to learn how to man the register. It's a tight fit having all three of them back there and Chuck doesn't say much of anything that's not a mumble to himself, but that's alright. He smells like alcohol and Castiel files that away for future reference.

All in all, Castiel picks up the mechanics of it fairly quickly; it's the talking to actual people part that's got him shaking, as much as he tries to hide it. With each new person, he can't help his tendency to examine, to downright _stare_. What's worse is that he knows he's doing it, but it's the only way he can cope.

There's the very skinny man with the bulbous nose that he just can't stop looking at long enough to ring up his Gatorade and bag of Doritos. Castiel can't quite tell why the man is smiling so widely and he panics because what if this is someone he knows? He can't just start talking like they're old friends. (“Hello, how is your family? Your mate? Your progeny? Did you have a dog?” No.). He calms, tries to remember that some people are friendlier than others.

“Have a good day, Steve!” The man cheerfully waves.

The panic doesn't subside until he's turned, face no longer visible and conveniently forgotten.

Next comes a round black woman, hair straightened back and pinned with a large red rose. Her clothes are a colorless dark gray, but the corners of her ruby-red lipstick-coated mouth are upturned and... is that a smile? Castiel can't tell unless it's very much pronounced and this woman—he doesn't know what it's supposed to mean.

“Relax, Castiel,” she tells him.

He freezes, wishes Charlie would come back from break. He'd even take Chuck at this point.

“H-have we met?” he asks, his voice cracking. He clears his throat because he's not a teenaged boy anymore and hasn't been in many, many years.

“No, honey. I'm just that good,” she laughs and it's breathy like marshmallow air. Castiel rings up her loaf of bread and when he looks up at her again, it's as though he's looking at a whole new person. The smile is gone, and he can't be sure it was ever really there to begin with. “I'm sure you'll do just fine,” she tells him before she's out the door.

Castiel knows, without a doubt, this is a bad idea.

He's sweating by the midpoint of his shift, completely soaked around the depths of his underarms, and he wishes he'd thought to bring an extra shirt for his locker. It's what he'd done in high school, and then in college sans locker, and finally the few months he'd worked as a librarian before deciding people simply aren't for him.

“How's it going, Steve?” Either Charlie's joking or she's forgotten the name on his tag isn't really his. Her mouth is upturned at the corner, but it's so subtle that Castiel doesn't know what to make of it. He frowns and stares and she slaps his shoulder. “Relax, Cas. You wanna head on to break for a while? I can cover the register.”

Sweet Heaven above, as Hester might say in exasperation. Castiel isn't able to tell his sisters apart by their faces, but he reads all too well their voices and personalities. And hair—all three have different colors—though he had been more than confused the summer Hannah cut hers from waist-length to a short pixie-bob.

Castiel nods briefly at Charlie and maneuvers out from behind the counter, leaving her behind. He heads straight for the outside world, through the glass doors and the smell of gasoline. There's an old cracked bench on the right side of the store, just behind the air pump, and he goes straight for it.

He sulks. It's only been three hours.

The worst part of it all is that Castiel hadn't been happy before this new workload, and he's not looking to be happy during it either. But then if he leaves it behind, there's no guarantee he'll be any better. He and depression are old friends and he knows the tell-tale signs, the want to stay in bed all day, all drive ripped from him like he hasn't eaten in weeks even though Anna forced him to down half a bagel and some grapes last night.

He leans down, his head in his hands, and tries to ignore the goings on around him. Cars pull up and then go—more people wanting gas than something to snack on this time of day. Around noon the lunch crowd will file in, and the kids after school at three, but they're stuck in between for the time being.

A car, loud and blaring music he's never heard before, pulls up just in front of him to make use of the air pump. Cas startles for a moment, not sure whether he should leave or just keep to himself in this close proximity. He doesn't want to face down unwanted conversation.

The door opens and closes, the engine finally silenced. Cas keeps looking downward.

“Hey, dude,” a gruff but not unpleasant voice calls. Cas sighs and lifts his eyes. The man in question stares right back. “You know how much? The sign's scratched off.”

Cas blinks twice before he realizes the man's got his thumb jerked toward the air pump.

“Baby's riding a little low in the front. Don't have time to stop off at the garage to check for damage before my shift starts.”

“Fifty cents,” Cas drones out, “or free if you fill up your car.”

The man laughs; Cas doesn't bother checking for a smile.

“Nah, did that yesterday. Don't have the time for it today, so fifty cents'll have to do.”

Cas nods and goes back to staring at the ground between his feet. There's an old cigarette butt, a gum wrapper, and an ant caught in the middle. It charges one way only to find its path is blocked and turns around to start the whole process over again. Back and forth like it forgot they were there to begin with.

It's the story of his life, he thinks sadly.

“Hey, you okay?” the man asks. Cas is caught completely unaware, and his first instinct says the man is talking to someone else. But no, his eyes, barely visible from the shadows cast by the side of the building, are staring right at Cas.

“I'm fine,” Cas says quickly. If fine means socially inept and really not good at human interaction, so please ignore the fact that I'm even sitting out here. The man hums and nods, going back to his business.

Cas can't help watching him now, unscrewing the cap on his tire, checking the pressure with his pocket gauge. Cas can't remember his face by the time he turns, but he's able to take in the man's build, the color of his blonde-only-in-the-sunlight hair. He moves with practiced hands around his car, in a way that the soccer moms and college students don't. He's probably good at fixing things, Cas reckons. He looks the type.

The man looks back and Cas is caught. His eyes go wide before he attempts to look anywhere else. It's something he's gotten in trouble for before and he has no want for a repeat.

“Dude, I know. Sometimes I have a hard time leavin’ the mirror in the morning,” the man jokes it off, softening the blow. He's finishing up now, twisting the cap back on and then dusting the dirt from the knee of his jeans.

Cas's hand shakingly goes to his pocket and he pulls out a string of rosary beads that used to belong to his mother. He's not particularly religious, but the repetitious movement of counting beads between is fingertips is a comfort. Some people have spinner rings or clacking metal balls; Cas has a rosary attached to a cross he's not sure he believes in.

“Hey,” the man says again. Cas almost can't hear him over the sound of his own rapid breathing—and when did that start? His chest heaves and he can't stop, can't calm it. In and out, in and out faster than he should be.

His vision narrows to a pinpoint, darkness floating in all around. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows what this is. But his breathing is too loud, too shallow and rapid, for him to think of anything else. It pains as he leans forward, hands gripping the denim of his good jeans.

“Hey, I'm with the fire department. Is it okay if I touch you?” Suddenly the man's sinking to his knees in front of Cas, his hands posed between him to show that he poses no danger. Cas wobbles a bit, the giddiness catching up with him, but somehow he still manages to nod before he falls over.

The man's hands go straight to him, holding him upright by the shoulders. “Okay, I need you to listen carefully. You're having a panic attack. We need to reset your breathing, alright?”

Cas can barely concentrate. His mouth goes dry, his hands feel clammy.

“I need you to hold your breath when I say, okay? You're gonna breathe in and hold it and then you're gonna let it out real slow.”

Cas nods. The man tells him to breathe in and he manages to hold it for thirty seconds before he just can't anymore and lets it out in one long, slow drain. He's not sure he feels any better just yet, but then the man is talking again and there's no time to dwell on it.

“Okay, you're okay. You're gonna breathe in and hold for five seconds, and then you're gonna let it out real slow, like before.” The man directs him and counts for him. “Just like that, buddy.

While Cas keeps with his instructions and comes down, he can't help looking more closely at the man. Hands are still poised at his shoulders, but one comes up next to his face, near his forehead, and brushes his hair back. “There you go,” the man says. This close, Cas can see the color of his eyes, a strange shadowed green that isn't quite the color of grass. He leans forward, toward the stranger, and it's comforting.

“You're doing great, man. Doing real great.” The man continues in his softer tones, praising Cas onward. He takes Cas by the wrist, holding two fingers over his pulse point. “Just gotta get that heart rate down and you'll be a-okay.”

Cas breathes in and out and soon enough the fog has cleared and he can think again. He doesn't have attacks often at all, if ever anymore, but something about today must have set him off with the stress of the new job and too much unwanted socialization.

“Is there someone we need to call? Do you want to go to the hospital?” the man eventually asks him. Cas shakes his head no. He just needs to rest in a quiet place, preferably for an hour or two, and then he'll be right as rain.

He blinks and it's like he sees a whole new person before his eyes. Green again.

“What do you want to do?” the man asks, a little too close.

But before Cas can answer, Charlie's out the front door and around the corner looking for him. She stops arms crossed like she's going to throw out a quip to the new guy, and pauses. “Dean?” she asks. “Why do you look like you're molesting my new employee?”

The man—Dean—one of his hands is still round Cas's wrist, and the other had been petting through his hair in a soothing motion. Purely to calm Cas down. As soon as the words leave Charlie's mouth, he's scrambling away, straightening up until he's standing at least three feet away.

Cas misses the contact.

 

 

“What are you doing working your employees to the brink of panic attacks?” Dean throws back.

Charlie moves faster than either of them anticipate, throws her arm around Cas's shoulders as she sits next to him on the bench. She pulls him toward her, until he's leaning against her shoulder. Good, he thinks. It's a different kind of contact, but not unneeded. “Shit, Steve,” she says. “Did I really push you that hard? I thought it'd be easier if it was me and Chuck here so you could just learn the ropes.”

“I'm sorry,” Cas croaks out. “It wasn't you. Wasn't the job.” He's looking at Dean again, but it's like seeing a whole new person when he can't remember the last one.

“No, no, don't say that. You've done enough today. You've done really good learning. There's not much else to show you. We'll just send you home early, okay? Do you need someone to come and pick you up?”

“I should be okay to drive if I can just sit by myself for a while.”

“Take him into the back where it's quiet, Charlie,” Dean instructs. “He should be fine in about half an hour. Maybe give him some juice. Something with sugar. He's gonna feel drained.”

“Thank you,” Cas mumbles a bit too late. He's not sure what else he should say. Or if he should get up and scurry back inside, tail between his legs. He's humiliated himself enough for one day.

“Nah, don't worry about it,” the man says with an exaggerated smile as he opens the door to his monstrosity of a car. “You just take it easy there, Steve.”

Cas cocks his head to the side, brows ever so furrowed as the strange man drives away. He only remembers the name on his badge as Charlie leads him back inside, resolved to make it the next half hour.

 

 

 

It's easy to tell Gabriel from everyone else, sock-monkey hat always perched atop his messy hair, even at a sweltering ninety-degrees outside. At six years old, he doesn't say much of anything, which really isn't any more odd than how at thirty-three, Castiel doesn't really say much of anything either. But where Castiel is content with his little corner of the world, Gabriel likes making a mess.

Which is how Castiel ends up mopping candy and mud from the foyer at six in the evening.

He loves his little family of three the way they are now—him, his sister, and his sister's son. They have a good thing going and who knows where he'd be without Anna's support. They still have their struggles; Anna gets too stressed, Gabe too troublesome, Cas too depressed. But they make it work. Somehow.

“You need to be more aware of your surroundings,” Anna preaches from the living room, her pointer finger held up in true motherly fashion. “Now you get in there and help your uncle clean or so help me, no dessert, no candy for a month.”

It's no surprise when shuffling little feet come stumbling in mere seconds later. Gabriel looks up at Castiel with his wide brown eyes—and it's new and honest every first time Castiel sees him—but doesn't say a word. It's probably not helped by the giant lolly he's got lodged between his teeth and tongue.

Cas'll take this image over the _Gas-n-Sip_ any day.

Anna stomps down the hallway, muttering something about needing a bath. It's not her fault she's so stressed lately, ever since she kicked Bartholomew to the curb last year. She's taken on her brother, her mischievous son, and managed to keep up a full time production gig at the local news station. Anna deserves to complain, in his book.

“It's probably best to avoid her the rest of the day,” Castiel tells Gabriel. The kid's still standing there against the wall with every intention of helping by not actually helping. There's not much he can do with caked mud along the hem of his shorts, dried on his kneecaps, and squidged between his toes. His discarded flip-flops sit just outside the door.

So it's Castiel who helps him clean up, Castiel who gets him into the bath, Castiel who make sure he dries off and changes into his pajamas. It's a fight getting the monkey hat off his head for the duration, and it goes right back on once his hair is dry enough.

They have a quick dinner with Anna, whom seems like she's calmed down once the actual mess is gone, comprised of effort-mac with three different kinds of cheese and some steamed broccoli on the side. Gabe pushes the green around his plate until finally it's covered with enough melted cheese and then it's grudgingly acceptable to his palate. There's no dessert that night, because apparently that's his punishment, even if it bears no effect.

“I want Uncle Cas to tell me a story tonight,” Gabriel announces like it isn't already part of his routine. It's his intended kick in the face to the order of things, but not so far off course that Anna thinks anything of it.

“That's fine,” she says coolly.

Or maybe Castiel can't read her as well as he'd thought. They'll be fine come morning though, when she gets up and makes them all a big breakfast before the workday. Probably something with copious amounts of sugary syrup in her habit of spoiling Gabriel the day after a punishment.

Gabriel foregoes his collection from the little bookshelf in his room. He doesn't watch television as much as he reads picture books, and the ones he leans toward usually feature animals more so than humans. But books with more words and less pictures have him goading someone into reading to him.

Some nights though, he insists something original, and Cas seems to be the only person who can provide.

Together they sit, side by side atop Gabriel's twin-sized bed, Gabe under the covers and Castiel on top. It always hits Castiel right about now that he feels like an uncle, a father, and a best friend all wrapped conveniently in one messed up package. Gabriel probably deserves better, but Castiel wouldn't give this up for the world. “Are you comfortable?” he asks. Gabriel nods, hugging his stuffed tyrannosaurus— _Gary_ —closer to him.

He goes for something new this time, about a colorblind cat that lives with a little old lady in downtown Atlanta. It’s better to be specific like that.

“But what does that mean?” Gabe interrupts. Cas never tells him to hush and listen. Rather, he encourages Gabriel to question everything.

“Colorblind: what does it mean?”

“It means,” Cas pauses to think. He’s not scared of an explanation too complicated, but he’s looking for something more coherent. “You see different colors, like with your crayons. And they all have different names, don’t they?”

Gabriel nods.

“Well there are some animals and even some people that can’t tell the difference between some or all colors. They can still see differences in dark and light, in the varying shades, but they can’t tell purple from blue.”

“That doesn’t’ sound like fun,” Gabe laments. “I like coloring things.”

Cas knows; their fridge is eclipsed with stick-figure animals and flowers he’s drawn for Anna.

“Well it’s not as sad when you realize that this cat, let’s call him Hank; he just sees the world differently. And he feels a lot of things: the texture of grass under his paws, the brush of flower petals against his whiskers, and the old lady’s nails as she scratches him behind the ears. All of these things are amplified for him. He sees the world differently.”

“And that’s a good thing?”

Gabe’s eyes are so wide and honest that it takes Cas aback. “Well, it can be if you find the good in it.”

Hank the colorblind cat goes on daily walks, solving animal mysteries along the way, much like a feline Sherlock Holmes. He relies on his sense of smell and touch, is a master of balance and always lands on all four paws. He has an ongoing love/hate relationship with the yappy little Chihuahua next door and the birds that perch on the power lines above find great humor in it.

Hank’s first mystery involves a lost chew toy in the park. He finds it by following the specific scent of canine drool and playing in the mud. Gabriel is captivated the entire time.

Everything in the story has a cut and dry answer, from the way Hank interrogates his suspects to the final confrontation with a field mouse named Ollie. He stole the toy after it was dropped, crushing the entrance to his hidey-hole house in the park. There’s a reason for everything.

“Why'd you do it?” Castiel asks once the story is over. He can’t not know and he doesn’t even have to elaborate.

“Because Mom,” Gabe whispers almost too quietly. He pauses, unsure how to finish. “She either gets really mad or she smiles really big. I like it when she smiles better, but the not-smile is okay too. Most of the time I don't get to see her.”

Castiel nods. He understands how lonely Gabriel has been now that she's working longer hours, making up for the loss of income when Bartholomew left. It's a trade-off for the positive, to be sure. Except the part where Gabriel acts out because he's not getting the attention he needs. Even less now that Castiel has started working. Suddenly it's no wonder that he decided to do it today, of all days.

“Get some sleep now, okay?” Cas smoothes down the top of the boy’s hair and turns out the bedside tiger lamp. “Tomorrow will be better,” he promises, only wishing that he had a guarantee.

He's not looking forward to work the next day and he lies to Anna when she asks him how it went over twin cups of peppermint tea in the kitchen. She asks if he's sure, like she can tell he's not quite telling the truth, but she'd probably be more disappointed if he said he never wanted to go back. She lets it go at that, retiring to her room, and he's left alone again.

His phone buzzes in his pocket.

_Charlie: Don't worry about tomorrow. I won't tell you Chuck nearly passed out his first day or that Meg almost clawed a woman's eyes out. I know good workers when I see them. A little panic attack isn't going to get you fired._

Though really, he almost wishes it would.

_Castiel: Thank you._

He goes to sleep that night with a rough, yet comforting voice coaching him in his breathing. _In and out. One and two. You're okay. I've got you._


	2. Chapter 2

“Working hard or hardly working?” Cas looks up from the yellow steno pad he’d nicked from Anna’s desk that morning. She’s got a whole pile and one won’t be missed.

It’s a man—the same man that came into the empty store five minutes ago; he knows because the bell over the door hasn’t jangled again. He’s got green eyes, Cas does his best to memorize, for reason’s he can’t quite grasp. It’s a pretty green, like the peridot pendant Hannah likes to wear on special occasions. Cas looks down at his notebook, then back up and he’s in awe all over again.

The man is smiling widely, proud of his terrible dad joke. Cas isn’t sure how to respond, so he gives a weak little shrug and starts ringing the man up. The grin disappears and it’s that much harder to see his face now. So Cas takes to noticing things about his body language instead. How he leans slightly to the left, all his weight placed on that foot; how he rubs at his chin, looking around the store. His hair is dark under the fluorescent lights, but Cas would bet it’s got some blonde in the sun.

Two packs of jerky, a piece of day old cherry pie, and a bottle of water.

“Eighteen forty-seven,” Cas monotones.

“You’re Cas today?” the man asks. Like he hasn’t heard a word Cas has just said.

“I’m Cas everyday.”

“Well, I mean, last time it said Steve.”

Great. He’s a regular. This is specifically why Cas hadn’t wanted to work here. He hates these situations, can never quite navigate them smoothly, and he can already feel his hands start to shake. “That was Charlie’s doing,” he says. “She couldn’t find the label maker my first week.”

The man’s wide smile returns at Charlie’s mention. “Yeah, she’s great like that.”

Everything’s bagged up and his change is handed over.

“Hey Cas, don’t work too hard, okay?”

Cas doesn’t know why this catches him so off guard. “I don’t—I’m not—it’s a bedtime story for my nephew.” Specifically a continuation of Hank the colorblind cat. In this edition he befriends a deaf squirrel named Asimov. Hank has to take a three-month sign language course from the mail order cat brigade just so he can solve the mystery of the missing park pigeons. Their excrement is still visible on the park statues, but they are not.

“It’s because sometimes the things we want to accomplish take time and effort,” he already has his speech prepared for Gabriel. “And three months alone won’t make Hank truly proficient in a new language either.”

It’s a good lesson, he thinks, glancing down at the yellow page. He’s only got four written so far. 

Something about the man softens. Cas can’t see it in his face, but his entire posture relaxes. And somehow it’s…nice? “That’s awesome, Cas. Really awesome.”

The man shifts to the left, the bag in his hands going in the same direction. He's waiting like he wants to say something more, but Cas can't imagine what on earth they'd have to say to each other. He opens his mouth and then closes it again, before repeating the whole process all over again.

“So, uh, no more panic attacks, right?”

Things in Cas's mind shift, connecting points without pictures, and he remembers that voice. Like something that's only familiar when actually present. He's only had an attack once, the day he'd started, and the feel of a hand calmly running through his hair becomes a ghost sensation. He ignores the need to feel it again.

His eyes narrow and his head tilts. “Dean?”

The man relaxes again and something about him screams hopeful. “You remembered?” he laughs. “Good to know I have that effect on people.”

“Thank you, again,” Cas says. He doesn't like the sound of nerves in his voice, but there they are. “Things are...easier since then.”

And it's true. He's gotten used to the job, gotten used to his coworkers. Some days are still worse than others, but he finds if he allows himself a good night's sleep and maybe an hour after shift is over to just sit in his room and be alone, he can cope. Charlie runs a tight ship, though she's nowhere near a workaholic. He likes working with her. And Chuck.

“Glad to hear it, man,” says Dean. With a half-hearted salute, he’s out the door, leaving Cas to his own thoughts once again.

It takes an hour of busy work, five more customers, and Chuck’s return for Cas to move past the anxiety.

“You alright?” Chuck asks in his timid, cautious voice.

Cas nods and relinquishes control of the register. He’s got four more hours until Charlie’s set to come in and relieve him. He nabs the mop and bucket from the back, as well as their little cleaning cart and a pair of heavy-duty kitchen gloves. Cleaning the bathroom is never his favorite part of the day, but at least he doesn’t have to deal with people.

Two hours before his shift is over, he gets a call from Anna. Or to be fair, he gets a voicemail, but her tone does sound rather harried, so he asks Chuck to cover him and sneaks outside to call her back. There’s a good chance she’s just overworked at the news station, and it does sound like she’s run a mile in the past minute, but there’s also the chance something’s happened to Gabriel. Cas has a bad habit of dreading the worst.

“Hey little brother,” Anna greets him with a tired voice. He breathes out a sigh of relief. “Listen, I need you to swing by the fire station down the road after work. You can pull into the back, they said.”

Anna goes on, but Cas doesn’t take any of it in. “Wait. What?” Because he’s got no reason to go to any fire station. He doesn’t know any firefighters.

“Balthazar’s covering a story at the local fire station after that gas leak over on First Street last week. He’s sort of still on probation after that interview with Miss Illinois. They want me to baby-sit him, make sure he’s on his best behavior.”

Cas remembers Balthazar very well. Can’t describe what he looks like, but the accent and eternal v-neck always give it away. He’s the only reporter on the Channel 7 news who doesn’t know what a tie is.

“I don’t understand. What does that have to do with me?”

Anna hesitates and Cas imagines she’s shrugging her shoulders, red hair spilling over whatever pantsuit jacket she’s wearing today. “It has nothing to do with you,” she laughs. “But it’s later in the afternoon so I’ll have to take Gabe with me. Too late notice to call a sitter and old lady Garcia won’t watch him after that day he replaced her begonias with fake ones. Though where he got them, I’ll never know.”

“What about Hester or Hannah?”

“Hannah’s on a field trip with her first graders. Won’t be back until late. And Hester’s got a dentist appointment. I already tried, believe me. Balthazar’s okay with it, and so are the crew. Gabe’ll be fine to sit in the station for a few hours.”

Cas doesn’t want to think about the havoc his young nephew is capable of in a firehouse. “You need me to pick him up after I get off work?” Cas asks, cutting to the gist. Anna has a bad habit of telling the whole story except the point.

“Oh could you?” Anna asks like it wasn’t her idea all along.

“Yes,” Cas sighs out his answer. “Now if that’s all, I have to get back. Charlie doesn’t like it when I leave Chuck alone too long.”

And for good reason. By the time he gets back inside, the egg lady has pulled out six cartons, meticulously checking each one for cracks like she can just mix and match. A couple of teenagers in school uniforms out for lunch break are blatantly opening their candy and eating it before paying over by the store’s short collection of magazines. And there’s a line of four at the register.

After a quick “ma’am, you can’t do that” to the egg lady, Cas takes over the register and sends Chuck off to creepily stand over by the teenagers so they won’t loiter much longer. They don’t.

A man with a mullet is first in line. He asks for a pack of menthols while he bobs his head to some unheard song. There isn’t anything playing on the overhead speakers. It makes Cas antsy watching him out the corner of his eyes, but he’s gone soon enough, bebopping out the door with a belated “Thanks, dude!”

Next in line is a short kid, teenager probably, from the cadence of his voice, which offers a short, clipped “snacks for study group,” when Cas raises an eyebrow at the armload of candy and chips. He wasn’t going to ask, but he supposes it’s as good of an excuse as any. The boy keeps checking his watch and pushing his messy black hair out of his eyes. Cas decides to feel sorry for him; he’d never done really well in school, but then again, he’d never tried.

By the time he gets to the last of the line, he’s breathing out a sigh gratefully.

“Only a few more hours yet, Castiel,” the dark-skinned woman says. She sets down a loaf of bread.

“Excuse me?” He’s jarred. His nametag reads Cas specifically because so many people botch the long version. Is this someone he knows? Perhaps with a new wardrobe or haircut? His heart races and his hand goes to the rosary in his pocket. The feel is comforting and he counts the _clack, clack_ of the beads.

“Oh don’t worry ‘bout it none, honey.” Her voice feels familiar. Warm. “We only met once before, not enough for you to take notice. You’re gonna be just fine.”

He nods dumbly, but something about her words calm him. Not that he believes her.

“Have a good day,” he mumbles once their transaction is complete. She keeps looking at him a moment longer than necessary and he wishes for the thousandth time that he could read people better.

 

 

The drive to the fire station isn’t that long, except for when it is. There are a hundred cars spaced back to back in the great after work migration. Cas curses internally, his hands clutched to the wheel at ten and two o’clock. He doesn’t listen to music, a habit from long ago when his family didn’t know the name of his condition and just thought him unobservant.

He doesn’t like thinking about it, doesn’t even like admitting it aloud to other people because it makes him different. There are always the awkward questions, the excuses made for him. So he pretends, because if others think him normal, he might believe it himself. It’s a nice wish, anyway.

The air conditioner rattles on high, but that’s the only setting it’ll actually work on. And even then it’s sporadic. He hits the dash just as it kicks off, somehow in tune with its temper tantrums. “Come on, you stupid thing,” he says, hitting it again when it doesn’t automatically switch on.

Soon he’s pulling into the station’s back lot, parking between an old, beat up blue truck and a black boat of a car he’s sure he’s seen before somewhere around town. It’s sad, he thinks to himself, that he can recognize vehicles better than he can people. The news station’s van is nearby, the bright blue and red _Channel 7_ adorning the side and back. Someone sits at the open side door, smoking a cigarette as he nods absently at Cas. Cas nods back, just because.

He’s not sure where to go, but the open door at the back end seems as good as any, so he starts there.

The sound of a child’s laughter hits him before anything else does. He’s on the right path. It rings again and he can’t help but smile; Gabe doesn’t laugh all that much anymore, not since starting school last month.

 

 

“Hello Gabriel,” he says to the sock-monkey capped boy sitting atop a firefighter’s shoulders. They’re the only two people in what has to be the living space, if the kitchen setup and dining room are any indication.

Gabe pauses in his laughter. “Hello Uncle Cas,” he remarks back brightly.

“Dude, _you’re_ his uncle?” the firefighter asks.

Cas tilts his head to the side. The man’s voice seems familiar, but regardless; why should he not be Gabriel’s uncle? “Is there a problem?” he asks. He’s caught between slightly offended and dumbfounded.

The man shifts from one foot to the other, Gabriel still sat high atop his shoulders. His voice, when he speaks, is more confident than his body language lets on. “Dude, Gabe, why didn't you tell me your uncle was the guy from the gas station?”

Gabriel shrugs. “Was I supposed to?”

The man shifts again and the awkward is pouring off him in waves. He brings a hand to his chin and rubs while Cas and Gabe remain all too silent.

“Oh man, I’m sorry,” he says. “Listen, little man here has been watching television for like the past hour. I was just giving him a tour of the place while his mom works. I’m on dish duty anyway, so it was a nice break.” He jostles Gabriel, causing the kid to squeal in surprise before he’s haphazardly dumped onto the nearby leather couch.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt.” It only occurs after that maybe that’s not what should be coming out of Cas’s mouth. Like it’s somehow his fault. His hand slips into his pocket.

“No, you’re fine.” 

Cas takes the chance to look him over more closely. He’s wearing a dark blue uniform, and if he weren’t alone, Cas wouldn’t be able to distinguish him from all the other firefighters. There’s really nothing remarkable about him that stands out. His hair is a dark blonde, his eyes the color of grass and dirt. So Cas looks at other areas—he’s fit, obviously, with masculine hands, and oh—Cas likes those hands. He feels himself going red before he can stop.

“I, uh,” the man continues, “I was wondering if we could go on. I haven’t even gotten to show him the engine yet.”

“Please, Uncle Cas!” Gabe pleads as he rushes to Cas and pulls at the hem of his white shirt. He’s still wearing the blue vest of the Gas-n-Sip and it makes him self-conscious. “It’s red!” Gabe goes on. Red, just like Cas.

Cas sighs. If Gabriel’s this excited, he can’t say no. “I suppose, if it’s no trouble. But we have to get back home in time to make dinner for your mother. She’ll be tired.”

“Yes!” Gabe cheers in childish glee.

“I’m Cas, by the way.”

The man laughs. “Yeah, I know,” he says.

How? Oh, that’s right—Gabe. The boy takes the firefighter by the hand and pulls him along to another open door, leaving Cas to follow closely behind. He refuses to be separated in the sea of faces they walk out into. Alongside the front of the massive red engine stands the news crew at the open garage door. They’re talking with a couple more fire fighters: one a bear of a man, and a short blonde woman, hair twisted in a sloppy bun at the back of her head.

Cas picks Anna and Balthazar out no problem, and his sister even turns and waves. But they garner no attention from the cameraman or the sound guys with their fuzzy microphones on poles. An older man with a graying beard and a white helmet labeled chief walks right in front of Dean.

“You behaving, son?” he asks gruffly. At first Cas thinks he’s addressing the only child in their party, but then their guide smiles widely and he chuckles, different from his earlier laughter.

“No trouble from me, Bobby. You can even ask the Captain.”

The old man, Bobby, quietly grumbles to himself, and Cas isn’t sure what to make of it until he comes back with a smaller, red version of his own hat in hand. He places it atop Gabe’s sock-monkey cap and tells him not to take anything _Dean_ says seriously.

Oh, Dean. It's Dean showing them around—Dean with his familiar voice and nice hands. No wonder he'd recognized Cas right away. Cas looks him over with slightly widened eyes, roving up and down, taking in the way he stands, how he holds Gabe's smaller hand in his own. Dean.

He'd feel lost except that it's Dean's voice in his mind, refreshed and telling him to breathe. _In and out. Keep on, man, you're doing good. One and two._

“You’re seriously hurting my chances here,” Dean mock complains to the old man.

“I’m only talking the truth.”

Bobby moves on to stand next to another man, dark skinned and same uniform as all the others, but his helmet reads captain under an emblazoned 13. The number of the station, Cas reminds himself. It’s all over the red and white engine as well.

The filming starts away from them, but they have to be quiet, as referenced by Dean’s lone finger at his mouth as he whispers “shhh” and tiptoes away, still holding the boy’s hand. Cas holds back a smile; this should not be as entertaining as it is. Or dare he say it… almost cute? Cas can’t read Dean’s expression, but he can definitely guess from his body language. It’s open and exaggerated, and makes even Gabe giggle.

“Now this is what you call a Quint, or a quintuple combination pumper. That means it’s both an engine that can pump water to put out fires and a ladder truck, so we can rescue people very high up.” Dean pats the side of the engine, toward its back tires.

His attention is all on Gabe, on teaching him all the technical terms, all the parts, and what everything does. It’s more than a stop, drop, and roll, which while very important to know, was also covered during the school’s fire drill last week. Cas takes in his fair share too. They learn that the tank can hold 750 gallons of water; that the main supply hose is 1200 feet; and that the engine carries eight ladders totaling to ninety feet, collapsible or otherwise.

Mostly, Cas is impressed with the way Dean doesn’t talk down to Gabriel. He explains everything and listens without complaint to all the boy’s questions.

“So do you drive it?”

Dean shakes his head. “Nah, I don’t even get to ride on it most of the time, except the use the ladder.”

At this, Gabriel starts to look doubtful, cocking his head to the side in true Cas-influence. “Then what do you do?”

“Well just come around here and I’ll show you,” Dean says daringly. He leads them around the engine and they’re met with a large red truck, albeit not nearly as large as the engine. “This is a rescue truck. She’s my other baby, though I do have to share this one with the rest of the crew.”

“Baby?” Cas asks. He doesn’t know why; it’s no business of his if Dean has any offspring. Though why he would compare any child to a motor vehicle is another matter entirely.

“He’s talking about his car,” Gabe says a little too loudly behind his hand. His whispering skills aren’t exactly the greatest just yet.

“The black beauty sitting right outside,” Dean supplies.

Cas knows the one. “That boat of a car?” He regrets it immediately as he looks for any signs of offense taken, but Dean’s posture is as easy as ever. He wishes for a wide smile, but he doesn’t get one, mocking his confusion.

“Cas, you’re lucky you’re so pretty,” Dean finally speaks. “Don’t let her hear you say that though; she’s sensitive.”

Cas blinks. He can’t tell at all if Dean is joking, yet another example of his inept social skills.

“Relax, man,” Dean says as he claps Cas on the shoulder. “You just don’t know how awesome she is yet.”

Cas’s eyes narrow. “Is that an invitation?”

Somehow they forget there’s a five-year-old standing in between them until Gabe tugs at Dean’s hand, bored with the awkward banter between grown-ups. Gabriel whines and pulls harder, but Dean isn’t dissuaded just yet. He laughs. “Man, you got a sense of humor, Cas. How about we start with a phone number?” He pulls a small pad and pen from the pocket of his shirt, right where his badge sits.

_Oh_.

The pad and pen are handed to Cas and he writes down his cell number without even thinking about it. The corner of his mouth lifts against better judgment because he’s pretty sure he’s just been propositioned. For what, he doesn’t know. Maybe just further conversation. Or perhaps a later date? Dinner and a movie? Sex? He’s at a loss how to proceed, but he does manage to hand the pad and pen back to Dean when he’s finished.

Gabe eventually succeeds in pulling Dean’s attention away and they lean side by side against the tail end of the truck, talking about what search and rescue actually entails. There’s a coil of rope in one of the compartments and Dean spends the next few minutes showing the boy a number of complex knots they use.

“So you save people from collapsed buildings?” Cas hears Gabe ask distantly. He’s a smart kid with an expansive vocabulary. But Cas’s attention is squared on those hands: twisting, wrapping, knotting. The muscles in Dean’s forearms move deftly with a practiced art. They definitely belong to a man.

Not that he can’t appreciate the female form when presented with all its curves and subtleties. He can. And he can appreciate the differences. But more than the physical forms, he notices the movements, the body language. Most people take from facial cues, but Cas speaks a different language entirely.

"You okay there, Cas?” Dean asks.

Cas’s eyes snap up and before he can even help himself: “You have nice hands.”

The only upside of his blunder is the return of that wide smile.

 

 

He and Gabe don’t stay much longer after that, and the whole way home, the kid goes on and on about how firefighters are so cool. But he doesn’t think he would ever want to be one.

“Why not?” Cas asks as they come to a stoplight at the end of their road.

“There’s too much to learn. And I hate school. I wish I never had to go back.”

That should be a warning sign if there ever was one, but Cas just files it away for later with every intention of bringing it up with Anna after Gabe’s gone to bed. There are no shenanigans tonight; just a quick meal of fish sticks and steamed broccoli that Gabe refuses to eat until it’s drizzled with maple syrup. Cas watches the combination with a curious disgust, but he figures as long as it gets the boy to eat his vegetables.

He forgets all about their conversation on the way home in place of a convenient text message.

_Unknown: Had fun today, Cas. Thanks for swinging by._

Cas smiles. Dean. He enters the contact into his phone with the appropriate name.

_Castiel: Thank you for indulging Gabriel._

_Dean: I hope there was some indulging of you too, Cas. Or does that come later? ;)_

Cas has heard complaints from people around him that texting is too impersonal, that it’s too difficult to read meaning and glean mood from message. Cas actually prefers it. Some of his trepidation dies.

He can do this.

_Castiel: That was... honestly terrible._

_Dean: I know. Hanging my head in shame as we speak._


	3. Chapter 3

_Dean: You are so lucky you don’t have to sleep in a room with four other men._

_Castiel: I’ve had to share a four by four foot tree house with my nephew. He kicks._

_Dean: Okay, so you win._

_Castiel: Regardless, I take it you didn’t have a pleasant night? How often do you have to sleep at the station?_

_Dean: It’s only bad ‘cause Benny snores. And Cap won’t let me bunk in the upstairs dorm with Jo. I’m only there when we’re on 48s, so a few nights a week._

_Castiel: You’ll be glad to sleep alone in your own bed, then._

_Dean: Well, I might not mind if I had some company._

Cas has to exit the screen; he doesn’t know what to make of a message like that. Dean's absolutely awful in his flirtations—or what Cas thinks are flirtations—but that doesn't stop his heart from jumping wildly in his chest. It’s oddly pleasant. He could actually get used to this. Not that all their conversation is so…sportive? They’ve covered friendlier topics as well: music, books, and their families.

Dean thinks it’s cool that Cas spends so much time caring for Gabriel. He’s said as such and it wins him extra points, so far as Cas is concerned. Dean likes kids. And Cas isn’t sure how he feels about other kids, but he sure as dirt loves Gabriel.

They’ve even made time for an actual, honest to god phone call a few nights ago.

“This ah… isn’t something I usually go talking about. I’m not the sharing and caring type. But you being there for your sister and her kid, well, it just reminds me is all. After my mom died…” Dean pauses a long while there, as if he’s not sure he wants to even continue on the same track. “I was angry for a while, that Grandpa Henry took me and Sam from Dad. But you know, I don’t want to think about how screwed up we woulda been growing up on the road like that. Fuck, I don’t even know what I’m getting at here.”

Cas remembers the conversation all too well. “No, I understand, I think. It’s good that you had that kind of consistency. Children need to feel secure in their surroundings.”

“Yeah.” Dean doesn’t say anything on the subject beyond that and it makes Cas second-guess his response. “But what about you? Got any embarrassing childhood stories you want to share with the class?”

Cas could have easily told him about the time he’d gotten lost at the local shopping mall, led around by security until his grandmother found him, simply because he couldn’t see her. A nearby employee had found him crying in the center of a ladies’ pants rack.

Or he could have told him about the day he’d run up and hugged some random woman at the airport, thinking she was his sister. He’d been detained for over three hours on harassment charges until the actual Hester had come to bail him out, just eighteen years old.

He could have told Dean how he’d been pulled from middle school for destructive behavior resulted from depression and placed in a private Catholic school for reform. Everyone wore uniforms, making things ten times more difficult and his alienation that much worse. He’d lasted until he was seventeen and then dropped out halfway through junior year and went to work at an amusement park. Though it’d closed five years later, it’d probably been the easiest job he’s ever held, everyone dancing around in overly large animal costumes that were way too hot.

But he doesn’t tell Dean any of this. He’d rather keep with this illusion of normalcy they’ve cultivated over the past week. It’s nice having a friend he feels so comfortable conversing with. There’s no pressure coming from a phone display. He tries not to dwell on how long it can possibly last.

“Hot date?”

Cas looks up and there’s Charlie, bright red hair fanning her face. It’s a stark contrast to the bright blue vest that matches his own. She’s smiling; he can see her teeth.

“No, just talking to a friend.” He pulls the phone to his chest when she tries to sneak a peek. Not that it matters—the screen’s long since gone blank.

Charlie shrugs, but her smile doesn’t fade. “Oh, I thought it might have been important, since you’re taking personal time on the clock and all.”

Cas goes red; he can feel his cheeks heating up and so he shoves his phone in to the pocket of his jeans. Out of sight, out of mind, except it’s not really. He feels it buzz against his leg and nearly jumps in anticipation. There’s a throbbing need to check it running up and down his spine, making his fingers itch in time with the tick of the clock.

He’s got at least two hours before he can take a break.

“Relax, Casanova. I’m not that much of a hard-ass. Just, you know, make sure you have all your chores done before you start with the electronics.” Charlie taps the surface of the counter between them. “And I do believe I asked you to clean the cans outside.”

Indeed she had, an hour ago, Cas notices as he takes a quick peek at the clock. But an influx of customers had come in not long after and he’d been stuck behind the register for a good forty-five minutes. Afterward, he’d gotten distracted by a certain buzzing—there it goes again in reminder.

To fight the temptation, he stows his phone in the locker that he never uses on his way through the back to get a handful of large garbage bags for the cans. The store is empty, but there’s one car at the pumps outside. Most people pay at the pump these days and this car is no different. The display on the register tells him so.

The air outside isn’t as muggy as it has been, making him hope it’s finally cooling down to make way for fall. He’s looking forward to December when he can spend a little more time with Gabriel.

“Good afternoon, Castiel.” He’s interrupted halfway through tying up his first bag. The can falls to its side, rolling away until it comes to a stop by the curb.

He looks up at the dark-skinned woman, her curls held in place at the back of her head with a large red rose. Something about her is familiar, but he doesn’t want to guess at exactly what.

“Well I didn’t mean to scare you,” she says with a hint of attitude. He realizes it’s her voice that he’s heard before. He can’t recall it directly, but he’s pretty sure she’s used his whole name on several occasions now.

“No, no, it’s alright.” He goes chasing after the errant can, leaving the tied bag leaning against the nearest pump. He eyes her warily upon returning. She’s not paying him any mind, as she continues to fill up her car’s tank. It’s big and blue and there’s a string of jade beads hanging around her rearview mirror within.

“Have you written anything new?” she asks without looking at him.

Cas is astounded by her ability to startle him every time. He moves to the next can, carefully tying the bag off before he pulls it free. “No,” he answers. It’s probably not a stretch to guess she’s seen him writing here before. He always has his notepad on hand, even if he hasn’t done anything with it today.

She hums. “That’s a shame. You know how much that little boy loves those stories of yours.”

He’s too shocked to respond, his mouth hanging open as he stands there, a bag of garbage waiting in each hand. Another car pulls in behind him, but he gives it no attention.

“You take care of yourself now, Castiel,” she says with a wave as she gets into her car. It sounds like more of a gentle order than any kind of well-wishing. Cas stares as she pulls out onto the empty street, confused as the rest of the day is long.

And boy is it. His eventual break is relegated to ten minutes behind the building downing a bottle of water and a bag of pickle flavored potato chips. They’re too busy for him to take any longer though he’s nearly aching to go back in for his phone. The rate at which he downs his snack and gets back inside does offer him solace from his thoughts though. He puts the strange all-knowing lady out of his mind for the next three hours successfully.

Chuck doesn’t come in on time (“for the third time this week,” Charlie tells him with a stern voice) and so he has to stay an extra hour until Charlie can either call Meg in or Chuck actually shows.

Chuck does show, for which Cas is grateful. Mostly because Meg scares him. She refuses to wear her vest when Charlie isn’t working, so Cas has to look extra hard for her nametag—and sometimes forgets until she starts talking and he has to infer from her context an her voice who she is. It also doesn’t help that she so frequently changes her hair, going from blonde to brown and then long to short all within the confines of two weeks.

He hears Chuck’s quiet apologies before he sees him pulling on his smock-vest as he stumbles in through the door. “I was up all night making some notes.”

“Notes?” Chuck never said he was in school, but Cas supposes it’s never too late.

“Chuck here is gonna be a famous writer someday, arentcha?” There’s an edge to Charlie’s voice even as she slings an arm over Chuck’s shoulders. “But if he’s not careful he’ll be playing the starving artist card soon enough.”

Chuck ducks his head. “I’m sorry,” he repeats even quieter than the last.

“Just get to work and let Cas here go home and relax.” She waves to Cas with the hand she still has wrapped around Chuck. But before he can finally make it out the door, she’s calling him back.

“What is it?”

“You’re not forgetting anything, are you?” She pats her own front pocket in reference.

“Oh!” Cas can’t believe he’d nearly walked out without his phone. Not when it’d occupied most of his thoughts for the day. As soon as he rips open his locker door, he’s tapping at the screen and wincing at the number of missed messages he has collected.

_Castiel: Sorry. Charlie caught me with my phone out during work hours._

He gets no immediate reply and decides to wait until he’s home to read all that he’s missed.

 

 

Gabriel’s at his side as soon as the front door opens, his hands around Cas’s waist as he leans in for a hug. As well as anyone can hug a person’s stomach. Cas smiles and runs a hand over the top of the boy’s cap.

“What’s this for?” Gabe’s not really one for hugs—hasn’t been since he was at least three and realized that no, the adults aren’t going to chase him down when he runs from it. He’s too fidgety, too active to be contained for long.

But Gabriel doesn’t answer; he just presses his nose further against Cas’s shirt and shakes his head.

“Hey, hey,” Cas says softly as he leans down and picks his nephew up. It’s been so long that he’s forgotten how heavy Gabe’s gotten. He’s growing up far too quickly. “What’s the matter all of a sudden?”

Gabe looks at a point on the wall over Cas’s shoulder. He lifts a tiny hand to wipe at his face and it’s only then that Cas sees he’s crying. The white around his amber eyes is turned a painful red and streams of tears make their way down his cheeks. His little body shakes in Cas’s hold, even as he wraps his arms around Cas’s neck to ground himself.

“What’s wrong?” Cas asks again.

“He’s not had a very good day,” Anna interrupts them, coming around the corner with a dishrag in her hands. She moves it back and forth with nervous energy. She doesn’t like punishing the boy any more than Cas does. “He’s also supposed to be standing in the corner for fifteen minutes, of which he has five left.”

Cas nods, but he can’t help holding Gabriel a little tighter. “Is that true, Gabe?” he asks, not because he doesn’t think it true. He’s not about to undermine Anna’s parenting in any way. He’s just the uncle.

There’s a small nod as the yarn of Gabe’s hat rubs against Cas’s cheek. It feels guilty and defeated.

“Gabriel, look at me please,” Anna requests. It takes the boy a full minute to finally turn his gaze to his mother. “You have two choices,” she continues calmly. “You can tell your uncle what you did at school today or you can stand in the corner for five more minutes.”

For someone like Gabriel, asking him to stay still any amount of time is akin to physical torture. So it’s no surprise when he looks back over Cas’s shoulder and whispers in his ear, “I pushed Rachel into the mud at recess.” It comes out more broken than either Cas or Anna expected.

Cas looks to his sister, sees the tense way she’s standing and he can tell she doesn’t understand the reasoning for it either. He sets the boy back onto his own two feet and kneels down in front of him, hands petting over the hair jutting out around his hat and a face Cas has no hope of retaining.

“Why would you do something like that?”

Gabriel sobs, his body heaving, and he drags his arm under the base of his nose. Cas motions for the rag and Anna hands it over, at a loss. She’s already gone through it once today and it’s doubtful she’d gotten any deeper in her own interrogation.

“She called me stupid,” Gabe finally expounds, quiet as he can. It’s unnerving to everyone involved.

Cas does his best to clean up what he can see, but it’s difficult when Gabriel wants to bury his face in his own arms. He still hasn’t quite outgrown the whole “if I can’t see you, you can’t see me” stage of his early life.

“Gabriel,” Anna says softly. She takes a step forward, hugging her son from behind as best she can while still standing. “Just because someone says something hurtful to you doesn’t mean that you should retaliate with violence,” she explains. “You know that.”

But instead of having that calming effect they’d both hoped for, Gabriel stomps his foot as hard as he can against the tile of the foyer and pushes past her reach. “You don’t understand!” he shouts. “It’s because I couldn’t see her, so she called me stupid! It’s not my fault!”

Anna’s hands go to her hips and Cas sighs. All the progress they’d made, gone. “You know we don’t shout in this family, Gabriel,” Anna tells him, her voice level. Cas and Gabriel both know she means business. “Back into the corner, ten minutes.”

“But you said!”

“That was before you decided to raise your voice. We’ve talked about consequences.”

Castiel knows better than to say anything. Still, he watches sadly as Gabriel sullenly moves away like all his limbs are made of lead and it’s taking all the energy he has to make it back into the living room. The cloth is still in Cas’s hands, rife with five-year-old snot and tears. He folds it as he stands and hands it back to Anna.

“I don’t know what to do,” she admits quietly. Her shoulders look heavy hunched forward like that.

Cas lets out a long breath. “You’re doing the best you can,” he tells her. And it’s true; they’re both doing their best, but things continue to trickle downhill, sticky like dirt and honey.

Dinner is somber at best. Gabriel refuses to talk to either Cas or Anna, no matter how much they try to engage him. And the moment they try to bring up an upcoming parents’ night at school, he pushes away from the table altogether and goes to his room. He’s finished his peas, at least, so they let him leave without a word.

Cas doesn’t think about his messages until his phone buzzes again while he’s washing dishes and Anna has Gabe corralled for a bath. He rinses his hands and wipes them on a hanging hand towel nearby, and then walks to the living room where he sinks down comfortably onto the couch.

_Dean: No problem. We got called out for a few hours. First a gas leak, no one hurt, then a kid got his head stuck in the metal railing of a staircase._

_Castiel: Does that happen often?_

_Dean: More often than I can count. But I’d take that over a burning building any day._

Before Cas replies he skims back up to see the messages he’d missed from earlier.

_Dean: Was that too much?_

_Dean: Fuck, it was, wasn’t it?_

_Dean: Pay no attention to the words on the screen. Lack of sleep, remember?_

_Dean: I’m sorry._

Cas smiles; he can’t help himself.

_Castiel: You were really worried, weren’t you?_

_Dean: No. Maybe. Depends._

_Castiel: Oh?_

_Dean: Whether I blew it._

_Castiel: I am unaware of you blowing anything. At least not yet._

_Dean: You totally didn’t mean to do that, did you?_

Cas thinks perhaps Dean is laughing at him, but he can’t bring himself to be hurt by it. Just as he’s about to type out a quick reply, his phone buzzes again and it’s apparent Dean’s beat him to it.

_Dean: Do you do dinner?_

_Castiel: Daily._

_Dean: Not what I meant. Saturday, 6? Burgers?_

Cas pauses, his finger posed above the keypad. Is this what he thinks it is? His mouth falls open ever so slightly and then closes just as quickly because Dean can’t actually hear him or his confusion.

_Castiel: Are you asking me out?_

He doesn’t care that he reads like a sixth grader or that his hands shake where he holds the phone in front of his face, so tightly that it’s almost a magic charm. This kind of thing—this flirting and possibly dating—it just doesn’t happen to him. Or hasn’t in a very long time.

The reply comes back after some delay.

_Dean: Yes._

_Castiel: Yes._

He waits a few seconds before he sends another. Because he has to make sure this isn't just a figment of his imagination. Or a misunderstanding. Mistake. Misinterpretation.

_Castiel: Are you sure?_

_Dean: I did ask._

_C_ _astiel: Could you call?_

His phone is ringing almost instantly, before the screen even dims itself. Cas takes a moment in hesitation; he's not sure at all this is a good idea or why he even requested it. He should just let it go, text Dean that he's sorry.

He hits accept.

“Dean?” he asks, waiting for an answer. “Could you tell me to breathe?”

“Breathe, Cas. In and hold. Out slowly. I'm here.”


	4. Chapter 4

It doesn’t take long for the doubt to set in. Not even a full twenty-four hours. Cas drums his fingers atop the counter between him and the rest of the store. Some tune from one of Gabriel’s favorite cartoons is stuck in his head and for once he tries to concentrate on that instead of dwelling on worse thoughts.

His phone is laid out before him and he keeps the screen from going blank by swiping at it mindlessly every few seconds.

“What’s up, Buttercup?”

He hadn’t even heard Charlie walk up, but there she is beside him, chin propped on her hand and another drumming in rhythm with his. She’s teasing, he realizes some moments later, immune to his questioning stare. He decides to give in. She’s not the type of person he can be annoyed with.

“I have a date this weekend.” He sounds miserable even to his own ears.

“Well look at you go, Cas!” She bumps her shoulder against his. “So why the long face?”

He’s never quite understood that sentiment, even if he gets the context. “I’m afraid it’ll end badly.”

“Sweet guy like you? Why would it end badly?”

Any number of reasons, he sighs internally. But nothing he actually wants to share with her. Or anyone. Maybe he should just suck it up and explain to Dean, to Charlie, to everyone. Just because he hasn’t slipped up so far doesn’t mean he won’t.

“I’m not very good with people,” he settles on instead.

“Well why not? There’s nothing wrong with you.”

Oh, if only she knew. Cas shrinks in on himself, crossing his arms as he looks pointedly to a display of packaged donuts. Anna’s voice intones in his head to just tell her. Charlie will understand, he knows she will, but something stills his tongue and before he knows it, three people file into the store.

So the day continues, Cas dredging up reason after reason to cancel his date, to stop this thing with Dean, whatever it is, before something bad happens. It drags his mood further into the dirt and he feels like crying when he doesn’t recognize Meg due to the blue highlights in her hair. He’d been talking to her a full five minutes without recognition until Charlie came out and told her to put on her smock and make a good impression.

“At least I match today,” she jokes to Cas with an audible scoff. “Nothing like color coordination to make the Gas-n-Trash look good.”

Her name badge is there, plain as day, and he feels the oncoming headache.

Charlie leaves not long after and Meg's vest comes off ten minutes after that. She complains about the temperature but it's actually quite chilly in the store, especially near the coolers. She has no qualms about plucking a bottled water—the most expensive—from the furthest one and settling behind the register for the duration of her shift.

Though she eyes Cas warily in between checking for new texts on her phone, he pretty much tunes her out, going about his cleaning with little problem. It's a better way to distract himself than waiting on the influx of customers they seem to get in bursts throughout the day.

They get five in the next fifteen minutes and then it dies down again.

He's busy assembling a cardboard display of on-the-go cereal cups across the store when she finally speaks up again. “Dean? Sounds like a meathead name if there ever was one.”

Cas's head tilts to the side as he turns and looks to her with narrowed eyes. “What?” he asks.

“Well I don't mean to pry, but it's right here in front of me.” She shrugs and holds up a familiar, rectangular object. The screen is lit up and in comes another message. She reads it with a smile, “You still good for Saturday?” her voice is teasing. “And do you mind if we meet somewhere? I'll just be coming off a shift.”

“Give me that.” Cas leaves the display where it stands half built and power walks across the store. He doesn't mean to look so flustered, but it's there in his body language, he knows. The phone gets ripped from Meg's extended hand and it does nothing to wipe the smile from her face.

“So you got a hot date this weekend?” Meg asks. It's apparent she's not going to leave it well enough alone. “With a Dean. Meathead, yes, but probably great in the sack. Didn't know you swing that way, Cas.”

“I don't swing any way. I just am,” he grumbles.

He hesitates typing anything into the keypad, just staring at the screen until it goes blank again. He should just cancel. Find an excuse and say he's busy. Something to do with Gabriel would work—Dean would understand. For now. God, why had he ever thought this was a good idea?

“Well don't just leave him hanging.” Meg gestures to the phone with a dismissive, waving hand. “You go and get you some, Cas. Maybe get him to remove that stick from your ass. Though I'm starting to think you like it there.”

Her crude language and insults aside, she's got a point. He can't just keep ignoring it. “I don't know if I should,” he finally settles on.

“Why's that?” She just sounds bored now.

“I'm not good with people.”

“You don't say?”

He shrugs. “It's just not a good idea.”

Meg leans over the counter and snatches the phone right out of his hands. Cas stands aghast before his brows furrow and the heat of his glare could melt nickels. “Give that back,” he demands. He even swipes for it, but she's backed herself against the cigarette display.

“Not gonna happen, Cas,” she tells him as she scans over the last few messages he's received from Dean. “Oh isn't this cute? You're both so inept, it's almost endearing. You know, if it weren't so very, _very_ sad.”

“Meg, give it back.”

It's like high school all over again. Maybe Meg never left. But maybe Cas hasn't either. He's still stuck in that weird, awkward phase most people grow out of and every interaction reminds him of it.

She starts typing and he's about ready to leap over the counter to stop her, except that the message is sent before he can even move. She's quick with her thumbs. “There you go. Message sent. Castiel says...your name is Castiel? What the hell? Did your parents hate you?” She hands the phone over. “ _Dean, can't wait for Saturday. Just let me know where and I'll be there._ Didn't mean to rhyme, but I can't help myself sometimes.”

“I don't sound like that.”

“Well maybe you should. It won't hurt you to sound a little excited. I mean unless the dude's a total dud. Ha, see what I did there?”

“Dean's not a dud. He's...he's something else.” Cas thinks of the Dean he'd met at the fire station, of how well he'd interacted with Gabriel. At how well he'd gotten along with Cas himself. Dean didn't treat him like he was weird, or abnormal. And the Dean he's been texting is warm and funny, and just awkward enough to be cute.

Cas feels a connection; there's no doubt about that. But he doesn't know what he'll do if it turns out to be illusory. He's holding on by a tether as it is and wouldn't know what to do with the disappointment.

“Something else good? Something else bad?” Meg prods.

“Good, very good. It's me I'm worried about.” He has his phone back, so he has no idea why he's expounding on the subject to Meg, of all people. They get along well enough, but they also don't work very often together. And most of the time there's Charlie to act as a buffer.

She opens her mouth to speak, but before the words can start pouring forth, his phone is ringing. _Dean_ , he thinks, but he's too afraid to look. 

“Answer it,” Meg tells him. “Charlie's not here.”

Except that it's not Dean at all. The name of Gabriel's school flashes back at him and his stomach figuratively drops to the floor. He's not used to the idea of being an emergency contact. Before he'd started working and before Gabriel started school, they were pretty much inseparable. But now, when he can't be on Gabriel-watch twenty-four-seven, when he can't see with his own eyes that the boy is alright, the instant sensation is fear.

“Hello?” he says as he answers.

“Hello, this is Carol at Willow Pines Elementary. Am I speaking with Casteel Novak?” The voice sounds tinny in Cas's ear, and his heart is racing, but he has presence of mind enough to correct her.

“Castiel, yes. Is something wrong with Gabriel?”

“No, nothing physically wrong,” she pauses and he hears a ruffle of papers in the background. “He's being sent home from school early today and we need someone to collect him. We've tried to contact his mother, but she isn't answering her phone.”

Anna's on location again today, babysitting Balthazar, at the nearby salt mines. She can't help that her coverage is spotty all the way up there, north of the city, but he curses the fact nonetheless.

“How soon?” he asks.

“As soon as possible. Our guidance counselor would also like to take a moment to speak to you.”

The news certainly doesn't make his day any better, but no matter what, Gabriel comes first. That's the only rule he abides by. From the moment Anna knew she was pregnant, through her boyfriend leaving the month after Gabe was born, and certainly even now.

He finishes up the call quickly and looks to Meg helplessly. He has to leave, but the job—he's only been here a few weeks now.

Evidently Meg can add mind reader to her repertoire, alongside thief and master of snark. “Go,” she tells him. “I don't know what that was, but it sounded serious. I'll call Charlie and let her know to send Chuck or get her ass back here. It's not like we're busy anyway.”

“Thank you.” He's out the door before she can even respond.

 

 

Cas doesn't have good memories of school. And one of his biggest fears is that Gabriel will end up the same as him. It's multiplied the moment he steps through those front doors. His hands shake and he reaches into his pocket for the rosary beads, but his hand hits his phone instead. He stops and takes in a heavy breath; Dean is the last thing he wants to be thinking about right now.

The halls are painted in bright murals: zoo animals, aquatic life, and dinosaurs. Cas really can’t understand why Gabriel hates it so much here when all his favorite things stare back at him on a daily basis. Though, the giraffe’s eyes _are_ kind of unsettling.

The lady at the front office directs him down the hall after he introduces himself as Gabriel Milton’s emergency contact. He’s looking for a door marked _Ms. Mosely, Guidance Counselor_ , or so he’s told. The halls are empty, but he does see a class in the library on his way past. After a number of unlabeled doors, he finally spots what he’s looking for.

He knocks twice gently, but the door is already open and there’s a woman inside on the phone. He hopes she's Ms. Mosely, or this could get awkward. She motions him in and into a chair, which he takes tentatively.

“Thanks Carol, he’s here,” she says in her smooth, breathy voice. “Could you page for Gabriel Milton to come to my office please? Thank you.”

She hangs up the phone and Cas grips the armrests a little tighter. It’s been years since he's sat in an office like this. Usually for being in trouble. It isn’t easier this time around.

“Relax, Castiel,” she tells him. “There’s no reason for you to be nervous. You’re not in trouble here.”

It doesn't exactly settle him. He remembers years spent sitting in the principal's office, in the nurse's office, in the counselor's office. All because he couldn't connect with people. He'd started to lash out, had gotten angry. They'd responded with hushed whispers, no one ever talking to him, but rather about him, just out of earshot.

_Anger management_

_Behavioral problems_

_Depression_

But no one ever bothered to ask him exactly what was wrong. At least not until Hester sat him down with a paper she'd written in her early college years about people who could not perceive faces.

“Is Gabriel alright?” he blurts out.

Ms. Mosely laces her hands together on top of her desk. Cas can’t help feeling there’s something familiar about her. He can’t tell what she’s thinking, and her posture is oddly relaxed. She’s got a red rose pinned to her hair and _oh_. He knows her now; or at least he thinks he does. As she speaks, he takes in the cadence of her tone and he’s surer. Suddenly it all makes sense.

“Yes and no,” she explains. “Yes because he’s mouthed off one too many times to his teacher today. Doesn’t seem to want to have anything to do with the other kids either. He’s become fond of pushing people. But also no, because I think there’s something going on behind his behavior that we need to find and take care of.”

Cas nods and then stills. He shouldn’t be here; Anna should. He’s scared of what’s going to happen, of what she’s going to say. Is there something genuinely wrong with Gabriel?

Before he can ask, the boy in question pokes his head into the room and proceeds to crawl right into Cas’s lap. He buries his face against Cas’s neck, much as he’d done the evening before, aware he’s in trouble, but unwilling to face it. Cas places a hand against his back and lightly pats in comfort he wishes someone would show he, himself.

“Gabriel,” Ms. Mosely says gently, “do you want to tell your uncle what we talked about earlier? Or do you want to show him some of the lovely pictures you drew for me?”

Gabriel shakes his head, doesn’t turn around. His face remains dry, so he’s not crying. At least not yet.

“Would you like to wait for your mom to get here?” She asks. “We still haven’t been able to reach her by phone, but we can wait and meet again tomorrow.”

“Mom’s busy at work,” Gabriel mumbles as he shakes his head again.

“Gabriel,” Ms. Mosely intones again. “You know how I feel about speaking properly. You turn around and face me if you’re going to talk.”

Cas feels as though he’s been backed into an impossible corner between this stern woman and his own scared nephew. He realizes she’s there to help, but he just wants to take the boy home. Cheer him up with ice cream and stories. Again, he wishes Anna were here.

“Castiel,” she’s talking to him now, he realizes belatedly. “If you’re uncomfortable, we can wait for Gabriel’s mother.”

He nods quickly. That would be best.

“But before you go, I really would like Gabriel to show you his pictures. He’s a very creative young man.” She pulls a stack of construction paper from a drawer in her desk and splays them out for Castiel to see.

He moves to the edge of his seat, still holding onto Gabriel, and looks to the first in front of him. Three people on a blue background, two taller than the one in the middle, and one with bright red hair. There’s a house off in the distance that looks distinctly like theirs.

“That’s us,” Cas says to Gabriel. “You drew our family? It’s very good. You even got our house just right.”

Gabriel peers around, looks at where Cas is now holding the image. “Mrs. Fitzgerald said to draw our family. So I drew you and Mommy. And me.”

Castiel hadn’t known Gabriel could draw people so well. Instead of twiggy stick figures, they have actual clothing, albeit blocky, and each limb consists of two lines. At home all they have are pictures of animals he’s done stuck to the fridge with vegetable magnets.

“It’s real nice, Gabriel,” Ms. Mosely praises. “Not many kids your age can do so well. I wonder if you won’t be an artist when you grow up.”

Castiel sets the first down and looks over the others. There’s a yellow one with a group of smaller people sitting on a blue rug while a larger figure holds an open book. Story time, he guesses. Another blue one sits near the edge, of Gabriel himself in his sock monkey cap. He’s holding Gary the Dinosaur at their kitchen table.

“You’re very good,” Cas says and holds Gabe a little tighter.

Ms. Mosely picks up the story time image and takes a look at it herself before she turns it back to face Cas and Gabe. “Can you tell me which classmates are which, Gabriel?”

He quickly shakes his head and sniffles. “I can’t see them,” he mumbles.

“Maybe if you turn around and look?” Cas offers lightly. But Gabriel only shakes his head more fiercely and that answers that.

“Castiel, can you see if anything is missing from these pictures?” Ms. Mosely asks, laying the image back down with the others.

Cas can’t see that anything’s amiss at first. They're all people, well drawn by five-year-old standards. Gabriel likes to use bright colors and he's especially partial to blues and reds. He outlines everything in black first so that it all stands out. He's even rather adept at distance and size, showing that an object—like the house in their family portrait—appears smaller the further away it is.

The corners of Cas's lips raise and that's how it hits him. He's not used to looking for smiles because he's not used to examining faces. The lines that represent eyes and mouths on the scribblings of kindergarteners and their favorite after school cartoons—they don't exist here.

“They don't have faces,” he breathes out slowly. It burns when he tries to force air back in. He shuts down, his eyes glued to the blank faces in the pictures: the kids, Cas, Anna, and even Gabriel himself.

“Gabriel, why don't they have faces?” he asks though he's afraid to learn the answer. He can't...Gabriel couldn't...could he?

Wetness drops onto the junction of his neck and shoulder, just peeking out of his gray collared shirt. Gabriel's crying. He's crying and Cas knows and nothing can stop this now.

“Because I can't see them,” Gabriel whimpers out.

Somehow, though he shouldn't, Castiel feels like he's failed.


	5. Chapter 5

_Doesn't interact with other children. Doesn't follow directions. Not developing socially. Weekly sessions._

The things that are supposedly wrong with Gabriel. The school is worried, Anna's worried. Everyone's worried. And Cas can't help but feel it's all his fault. There's no way he could have passed it on. Gabe isn't his progeny. And if it runs in the family, there's nothing he could have done about it. But he's heavy, drowning in his own body.

The bell above the door jingles and in walks a bouncy redhead, a skip in her every step. She smiles widely at him, teeth visible and slightly discolored with coffee stains. He doesn't realize it's Charlie until she walks into the office and pulls on her blue smock.

Again, there's that jingle at the door and he holds back a groan. He really doesn't want to do this right now, doesn't even want to work today. Would have called in except that he'd promised Anna the morning to spend time with Gabriel, to talk one on one. Even if the conversation would probably be easier with Cas present.

“We need to figure out what's going on,” Anna had told him that night after he brought Gabriel home early, after the boy was put to bed with a story.

She'd felt guilty, that much had been obvious. But that was nothing compared to the way her shoulders fell when Cas told her.

“I already know, Anna. I already know.” He'd almost been unable to get the words out, violently running his hands through his hair. He remembers being on the verge of tears and even now, the memory stings. “He's like me,” he'd told her.

She'd gotten tense, her posture going rigid as she sat across the table from him. “But it's not genetic, is it? I mean, it doesn't happen often within families, does it?” He could see the wheels turning in her head, how much she wanted to protest the very idea of it. And it _hurt_.

“Anna, he can't remember faces.”

His eyes burn with unshed tears but he successfully holds them back.

“So, everything okay, Cas?” He looks up, interrupted—Charlie's right next to him and the woman who'd come in right after her is perusing the potato chip aisle with a two-liter Diet Coke poised under her arm. He moves subtly to the right, so he's not pressed right against Charlie's side.

She's way too cheerful for someone who had to be in at seven in the morning. She's actually five minutes too early, but that's better than Chuck's usual hour late. Or not showing up at all. She bumps against his shoulder and Cas has to fight against the jealousy. Even at her grumbliest, Charlie's ready to look for the silver lining.

“Really don't want to talk about it right now, Charlie.” And he doesn't have time to, anyway. The woman with the chips and her Diet Coke is approaching the register with a purposeful glide, like she's in a hurry in her high-heeled shoes. She asks for a pack of slims and then can't decide whether to splurge for an extra because she's “got a job interview in a few hours. Need all the comforts I can get my hands on.” So Cas hands both over wordlessly.

Charlie rings her up and she's well on her way out the door when Cas's phone buzzes in his pocket. Screw it, he thinks, though Charlie's standing right next to him, and he pulls it out and swipes the screen to life.

_Dean: Well someone looks like they need a hug._

Cas can't help but look up and look around, but the store is empty save for himself and Charlie. The door jangles a second later and in walks a man, bowlegged and with a sort of confidence in his step. The combination is awkward, but it works. Their eyes meet, green and speckled brown like the picture of Gary Gabe had hanged on the fridge last week.

“Dean!” Charlie cheers and she's around the counter, pulling him in for a hug before anyone else can get a word in. Dean looks like he gives good hugs, all strong arms and nice hands.

Whatever jealousy Cas feels is deflated when Dean lets her go and asks “You want a piece of this too, Cas?”

It's strange but he can't say no. He _should_ say no, they've only been talking for just over a week now. He doesn't.

At first it's completely platonic, and that's a relief. Nothing past the friendly hug Dean had given Charlie. One arm over, one arm under, casually holding on for dear life. Dean lessens his hold and that's Cas's cue to end the embrace, but he can't seem to let go just yet. It's too warm, too familiar, and too wanted, as sappy as that sounds. “Bad day,” Cas mumbles against his shoulder and Dean tenses before his arms tighten around him once more.

There's a voice in his ear, soft and low. “Breathe, Cas. I got you.”

So he does, in and out like clockwork, eyes clenched closed as he concentrates. He can feel Dean's heartbeat against his own chest; it should be weird, but it isn't.

They hold on for a few more seconds before Charlie starts awkwardly coughing off to the side.

“So how do you two know each other?” she asks as soon as they pull apart.

Dean hovers a little too close, but Cas can't find it in himself to care. He feels looser than before, not that any of his problems have been magically solved, but that little bit of comfort gives him the pause he needs to collect himself. Just for now.

“Cas was working the past few times I came in,” Dean explains. “And then we met again at the station. I was keeping his nephew company until he picked him up. Cute kid.”

“Is that the story you'll be telling your grandchildren?”

There's a strained sort of laughter and then Dean moves away to lean against the counter. Cas doesn't like it, but he doesn't say anything, giving himself the opportunity to study Dean a little more. He's flushed under his tee shirt, turned a little red across his neck and the upper part of his arms.

“So how's the convenience store business?” Dean offers up as a change of subject. His voice is a little shaky, like he's devolved into a fifteen year old meeting the parents. “Any break-ins? Explosions? Out of date milk?”

“That's weak, Dean, even for you,” Charlie laughs. “Why are you even here?”

He shrugs. “Just got off shift. Me and one of the guys are headed up to the lake for the afternoon to do some fishing. Thought I'd stop in and grab a few things.”

Cas doesn't ask who. Maybe someone from the station. He doesn't linger on the thought, his eyes roaming over Dean, up and down until he realizes he's checking him out in a way that's not just reading his body language.

Dean is—Dean is tall. They both stand well over Charlie, but Dean is taller than even Cas. He leans against the counter though, so he doesn't stand a full height. It makes him seem more approachable. One fingertip runs along the length of the counter, just at the edge, like he doesn't even realize he's doing it. He and Charlie talk about random things: work and family, things Cas should probably be paying attention to, except that he's trying very hard to memorize the sound of Dean's voice.

It's like...he doesn't even know what it's like. Not as tinny as the phone makes it sound. Cas wants to hold onto it, to hear it every time he reads a text. The actual phone calls are few and far between due to their schedules, and Cas has a bad habit of panicking every time he hits that accept button on his phone. So with this, with Dean's voice in his head, maybe every conversation can be like they're talking face to face.

He hears his name and his head snaps up to attention. Before he knows it, they're talking about him and he's lost in the middle of a conversation, head barely above water. “Maybe you can cheer Mopey here up a little,” Charlie says as she throws an arm around Cas's shoulders.

“What?” Cas breaks through his tied tongue.

"Not even paying attention. What do I keep you on the pay roll for?” She's joking. He hopes she's joking. But she's walking away before he can get any clarification and he's left alone with Dean.

His hand goes to his pocket on instinct, counting out beads with a practiced rhythm.

Dean clears his throat. Even that sounds appealing. “Sorry about that,” he says, his hand rubbing at his jaw and then moving around to the back of his neck. Everything about his posture reads embarrassed, but Cas gets the impression he's trying so very hard not to be.

“No, no, it's fine. I ah...”

“Listen, you don't have to tell me anything you don't want to,” Dean clarifies. Oh thank god. “I'm not exactly a fan of sharing and caring anyway. So just, don't feel pressured. I know Charlie likes to talk a person's ear off.”

Cas nods. He hopes it doesn't look too forced. “Okay.”

The conversation dwindles from there, with Cas awkwardly shuffling from side to side, hand in his pocket. If Dean notices, he doesn't make comment of it.

“I'm looking forward to Saturday though,” Dean finally says. Cas can see his eyes, the dirty green of them looking at him intently, even if he can't piece together the whole puzzle. They must stare at each other far too long, because then Dean's looking away, at anything else. “If it's alright to say that? I have no idea.”

Cas refuses to look away, wants to hold onto this image in front of him, no matter how impossible. He smiles softly. “I am too.”

Dean gives his shoulder a squeeze and then his cheek a light pat, that if kept in contact any longer, might have been a silent endearment, before he leaves. And Cas is left standing there with the gnawing supposition that the day is going to go by far too slow.

He sends a text fifteen minutes later, after an angry teenager clearly skipping school and a little old lady with a bag of generic cat food move through his line.

_Castiel: Thanks for today. I needed it._

He gets a reply half an hour later.

_Dean: For you, anytime, man._

 

“I'm not going to school ever again!”

He hears screaming as soon as he reaches the front door. It's not that of someone hurt, but rather the shrill cries of a five-year-old breakdown. Cas's heart starts thumping madly in his chest and he fights to get inside, throwing the door closed behind him and racing through the foyer to get to the heart of it all.

“What's going on?” he asks over the shouting. It dies immediately and he looks to Gabe's red face, little hands clenched at his sides. Gabriel freezes, his body tightening until it looks like he's going to keel over.

Neither Gabriel nor Anna answer him.

“Is everyone alright?” he tries again.

Again, he's ignored. “Gabriel,” Anna says, her voice hoarse like she's been crying, “corner. Fifteen minutes. Think about what you've done and how we don't raise our voices in this house.”

But Gabriel just shakes his head, slowly at first, but growing in intensity. “No,” he says adamantly.

Cas is at a loss. He doesn't know where to look, doesn't know what to do. He wants to comfort them both, but they're so angry. This—this is something they just don't do. They've always been a happy little family, always together, always in sync. But ever since school started, ever since Gabriel was forced to start interacting... Cas sighs. This is his fault, he thinks without any real reason to do so. Maybe if he'd paid more attention. Maybe if he'd done more.

“Gabriel, corner!” Anna repeats, a little louder.

“No!” Gabe jumps and lands on his own rear end. It looks like it hurts, but he just crosses his arms and legs, determined he's not going to move from that spot.

“Gabriel Milton, go to your room. You want to act like a baby? You can go right to bed and have a nap. Now.”

“NO!”

Cas flinches backward when Anna nearly leaps from her seat, crossing the room to confront her son. He's never seen either so angry. He watches, eyes wide, as Anna tries to pick up her son from behind, hands under his armpits, and Gabriel just fights and fights. He throws his arms out, he kicks forward, shouting and shouting that she can't make him. The room explodes with noise and movement, kicking and screaming, and Cas just can't look. He turns his head just as it all goes silent with shock.

And then there's Gabriel's hesitant little voice. “Mommy?” he asks, almost a whisper.

Cas spin's back and Anna's holding her pained jaw, mouth hanging open. She's not really looking at anything, and she's certainly not holding the boy any longer. “Mommy?” Gabriel asks again. But she just shakes her head and takes a step back.

“Go to your room, Gabriel,” she says quietly.

The boy doesn't even try to argue this time. He rushes to his room as fast as his little legs can carry him and slams the door shut behind him, the echo bouncing off every wall in the house.

Cas just stands there, hands shaking at his sides until he reaches one into his pocket and wraps around his rosary. He doesn't know what to do. He and Anna have never been very big on hugging. Other people, sure, but not each other. They're more prone to talking and sharing, and occasionally she'll ruffle his hair. But there's never been that need. He counts ten beads before Anna says anything.

“What am I doing wrong?” For the first time in her life, that he can remember, she sounds so unsure of herself. It breaks his heart.

“Anna, you're not... you're not doing anything wrong.” That's how he starts, but it's not right either. “He's different from other people. Maybe we should have noticed earlier. This...this has been coming for a while now. It's—it's good to get it all out in the open.”

Except that he's not at all sure himself. All he can do is try to cool the situation as best he can and hope they'll be better able to deal with it tomorrow. And if not, then the next day. Gabriel isn't set to go back to school until Monday, suspended temporarily for misconduct. He's only in kindergarten though, so if he turns his behavior around, there should be no lasting consequences.

“Did we—was it this hard with you?” Anna asks next and Cas flinches. “I mean, I know Mom and Dad didn't really find out until you were in high school and then you dropped out. If we had paid more attention, figured it out earlier, do you think it would have been different for you?”

He doesn't like to think about the past. All those times he didn't know whether he was coming or going. The only thing he was ever certain of was that there was something wrong with his brain. He didn't see people as others did. Even now, he's not sure that having a name to put to it actually helps any.

“I don't know,” he answers out slowly. “But I want things to be different for Gabriel. I want him to like school and have friends. I want him to look forward to every day. Just...”

Anna cocks her head to the side. It's a family trait. “Just what?”

“Please don't ever send him to a private school. The uniforms are hell.”

Anna laughs. It starts out small, but then it grows until he can't be sure if the tears she wipes away are happy or sad. Her shoulders sink and she's not so rigid anymore, so there's that.

“I think maybe it was a mistake for me to try and talk to him first. Do you...” She hesitates. “Do you think you could go in and talk to him? He's probably scared out of his mind right now.”

This is why Anna's a good mom, Cas thinks to himself. Sure, she makes mistakes, but even when she's angry and worn out, wrung from the perils of the day, she's still thinking about her son first. He smiles softly and nods.

Cas knocks at Gabriel's door before he enters, but he doesn't wait for a reply. The door creaks open, moving a tiny army man along the carpet in its path. “Gabe?” he asks as soon as he spots the huddled little ball of blanket and boy hiding on the bed. The mound shakes and whimpers; he's crying still.

“Hello,” Cas says and closes the door behind him. He moves to the bed and sits beside Gabriel, resting a hand gently atop the boy's back. “Do you think you could come out and talk to me?” he asks softly.

“Don't wanna,” the mound answers back.

“Well, I think you should anyway. It might help.”

Cas waits two more minutes until the pile of blankets starts to wriggle and a sock monkey cap pokes its way out. Gabe's hair is matted and greasy underneath; he'll need a bath before the day is done. He breaks free enough that he can look up at Cas with round, teary eyes.

“Is Mommy hurt real bad?” he asks, muffled by the blue of his blanket.

Cas shakes his head. “Not bad. I think she was just startled. But she wants you and I to have a talk.”

Gabriel buries himself back under his pile of blankets, wiggling under so he has hold of the edges and can't be pulled forth. He lies still after that, hiding like a rock in plain sight.

That's fine though; Cas can talk and Gabe can listen. “Do you know what face blindness is?” he asks and gets no reply. So Cas continues. “You see, a person can usually look at another person and they take all their features—their eyes, their nose, their mouth—and their brain puts it together to form a picture. And they can go 'Aha! That's Cas' or 'That's Gabriel'. That's how they identify people. That's how they remember people.”

Gabe moves to his right, just a smidge, like he's listening.

“But then there are other people, like you and me, who can't do that. It's something in our brain that's not like other people's. I thought maybe it was only me, but since you have it too, that makes it hereditary. That means it probably runs in our family.”

“But Mommy isn't like that,” Gabe counters from within his cocoon. It takes a moment for Cas to understand what he's saying.

“No, she's not.” It'd nearly killed Cas when he was younger that none of his siblings shared his condition. They could never truly understand. But here and now, there's this little boy he loves and would do anything for. “Hey, come here.” He nudges at Gabriel, waits patiently for the kid to slowly uncurl from the blankets and crawl his way up so they're sitting side by side. “You know, when I was little, I didn't know anyone like me. But you're lucky because you've got me.”

“Do we have to be different?” Gabriel questions. Cas asks himself that every day.

“Maybe we shouldn't think of it as being different. Maybe we should think of it as being special.” But Cas knows it's not that easy. It's not a switch you can flip on and off, feeling like this.

“That's lame, Uncle Cas,” Gabe says.

Cas laughs; he can't help himself. “You're right, it is. But you know, we can try to make it easier on ourselves. Find other ways of seeing people. Like I always know it's you because of your hat.” He pulls the sock monkey cap off the boy's head and turns it over in his hands.

“That's why I wear it too. So when I look in the mirror, I know it's me and not a monster.”

“Well, you _are_ kind of a monster. One that likes cookies and candies a little too much.”

Gabriel whines out this little half-laugh, half-complaint number, and rams his side against Cas's. It's not hard, nothing violent, and they're good now. As good as can be for the time being. Cas slings an arm around his nephew. “Do you think you'd like to go say you're sorry now?”

Gabe wipes at his eyes with the edge of his blanket, but he nods anyway.

“And then we'll have dinner. You can help me make your mom's favorite and then we'll get you cleaned up and settled in for a story. How's that sound?”

“More Hank the cat?” Gabe sounds almost hopeful for once.

Cas shrugs. He hasn't written anything in the past few days, but maybe he can come up with something off the top of his head later. “Why not? He's special too.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Whatcha got planned for later, Clarence?” Meg's taken to calling him different names, all starting with the same letter, like she can tell something's different about him and finds it fun to confuse him. Her purple jacket crinkles when she moves, and it's that Cas tries to memorize since she refuses to wear her blue smock, yet again.

He pauses where he's stacking rolls of toilet paper on the lowest shelf. There's no one else in the store—they'd just cleared out about ten people, having to open both registers in the process—so it has to be him she's talking to.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“Well, we're off shift in like twenty minutes, or you know, whenever Chuck decides to show up.” She's leaned over the counter, boredly examining her cracked nail polish. It never lasts a day before it's mostly gone, but she keeps coming back in with dark colors. “What do you have planned this glorious evening?” Her voice drips with sarcasm, and for once, he can appreciate it.

He'd planned on going home and making a sandwich for dinner, what with Anna and Gabriel meeting with the school counselor again to do some testing that afternoon. Anna bribed her son with promises of a cartoon movie and ice cream afterwards, just the two of them. There's no telling how late they'll be getting back. 

Supposedly there's a researching grad student coming from the university to talk with them because no one in the area is terribly familiar with face blindness and they need all the extra input they can. Which is great, Cas supposes. If they can find a way to make this easier for Gabriel, to make him like school, then all the better.

He's thinking too much about it again. His eyes shift back to the task at hand, roll after roll of one-ply toilet paper, too scratchy to be of real comfort.

“I'd planned on going home and eating,” he finally tells Meg.

And texting Dean.

He uses their exchanges to cushion every bit of news on Gabriel. And somehow it feels all better, talking to someone who knows nothing of what's really going on. Right now he's using Dean as an escape, which probably isn't fair. But he needs it. Needs something. Anything.

_Dean: So what was up earlier? Looked like someone just ran over your cat._

Cas nearly has the conversation memorized, reading over it twice before he'd gone to bed last night and then once this morning over his cereal. He'd debated telling the truth. It might be easier to segue into his own condition if he unloads Gabriel's first.

_Castiel: I thought you weren't one for sharing and caring?_

_Dean: I take it back, I'm curious. So, who killed your cat?_

_Castiel: I don't have a cat. Gabriel and I rescued one over the summer, but we had to adopt it out. Anna's allergic._

_Dean: So am I._

_Castiel: I feel sorry for you both._

“That's sounds hella boring, Catsup.” Meg's voice cuts right through his thoughts like a dull knife through plastic. He's hesitant to give way, but her soul is made of rusty metal and she'll find a way. She's nearly hanging over the counter now, her chin poised on her arm like she's ready to fall asleep. “We should go out.” She stops to think. “Can you cook?”

His eyes narrow. “Decently, I'm told. Except for eggs.”

“Who the fuck can't cook eggs?”

“I have a habit of cooking them too long and they turn an unpleasant shade of either brown or green.”

Meg seems to ponder on this a moment. “Alright, fine. So we won't have eggs. But you can come home and cook for me, right?”

He'd wondered where her strange train of thought was leading them and finds he doesn't really relish the outcome. He and Meg aren't particularly close and she's never paid him this much attention outside idle conversation and complaints about their job. And something about it makes him nervous. He can't read Meg like he can Charlie, or even Chuck. There's something enigmatic about her.

“I don't know,” he says, hesitant. It's pretty clear she's not going to be the kind of person to take no for an answer.

“Come on, Catnip. We're friends, aren't we? And we haven't really bonded yet. That's important, right? When you have a job as wonderful as ours. One big, happy family.” Her tone is exaggerated and he gets the feeling it's meant to be.

He almost asks her when the last time she invited Charlie or Chuck, or the man who delivers their Coca-Cola products, out for a meal. But that's not exactly the point.

“Okay, you caught me,” she says with a sigh. “I really don't want to cook and I definitely don't want to wait on shitty servers. Last time I went to the Mexican joint up the road,” she juts her thumb backward like Cas can see through the wall, “chick spat in my lemon water.”

Cas simply _can't_ imagine why. But at least she's honest.

“What do you have in your kitchen?” Because if he's going to do this, he's got to know what he's working with food-wise.

“Not a damn thing.”

He sighs, telling himself he should have expected it. “We'll have to stop by the market.”

Charlie comes in at three-thirty, but Chuck is late as usual, this time by just under half an hour. So Cas ends up having to cover for him, and Meg waits anyway, leaning against the front of the counter facing the store. She's propped on her arms behind her, pretending the store isn't deserted until the next wave of customers passes through.

“So you never told me what brought you here, Cadillac.”

Cas looks up from where he's trying to reroll an errant line of scratch-offs under the glass display in the counter. “What do you mean?”

Meg starts tapping away at the edge, some tune he's never heard before. There's a wad of bubblegum in her mouth and every so often she tries to blow a bubble and fails miserably. “I mean what made you decide: dear lord, I must start a career as a convenience store clerk.”

Cas's eyes narrow. “What do you mean?” he repeats. “It's honest work, so it's good work. There's nothing wrong with being a convenience store clerk, as you say.”

“Yeah, but really. Smart guy like you? I bet you were one of those kids that went to college and everything, but ended up hating whatever you studied. Daddy wouldn't let you change majors, so you're doing this to get back at him.”

Cas wishes. “Try again.”

“So then daddy issues are out. Okay, alternate theory: You got a job straight out of high school, kept moving up the company ladder 'cause you're pretty. Then you make the mistake of sleeping with the boss for a pay raise. His wife finds out and suddenly you're the laughing stock of the entire enterprise. Blackballed from ever finding work in whatever pressed-suit line of business you were in.”

This one actually makes him laugh. “Is that what you think of me?”

“No,” she sighs. Her tapping ceases. “You're a little too uptight for that. Suppose I'll have to come up with another one.”

“What about you? Why are you here?”

“I got pregnant,” she answers simply, kind of quiet as she shrugs one shoulder. He doesn't want to press, but she doesn't exactly look like she's bursting with child. “Thought it was good enough afterward,” she carries on. “Until something better comes my way, anyhow.”

Something tells him not to take her too seriously, what with all the fantastical stories she'd come up with for him. But then she presses her hand to her stomach absently and any doubt washes away. He doesn't ask what happened; it isn't his place. Meg says something about needing the little girl's room and she's gone not long after.

He gets two texts in that small space.

_Dean: Tomorrow's Saturday._

_Castiel: I know._

_Dean: That doesn't help me today._

Cas isn't sure what to make of his cryptic message, but he doesn't ponder over it long. Not when he's got three customers lining up to buy two cartons of cigarettes and a bag of Munchos, respectively.

Chuck finally comes in at five til' four, reeking of smoke and body odor, but somehow coherent. Cas doesn't ask any questions, Chuck offers up no answers. But Charlie does wave her hand in front of her face as he walks by. She tells him to douse himself with the air freshener they keep in the bathroom in the same breath that she tells Cas and Meg to go home and have fun in her stead.

“Did you drive?” Cas asks Meg as once they're stood in the parking lot. It's pretty empty, save for one extra car that's pumping gas. She shakes her head and explains that she lives just around the corner, so there's no use even if she had a car.

“We'll take mine then, to the store and then your place.” He's still not sure about this. He hasn't been to a friend's—and he uses the term very loosely—place in...well, ever. It'd been extremely difficult for him to make friends in school, and even outside. He pushes it all to the back of his mind and marches off to the back lot, Meg following behind in shorter strides.

“What the fuck is this, Clarence?” Meg laughs as she speaks, but Cas can see no trace of humor in her stance. He's got one hand on the door of his ancient Lincoln Continental, ready to pull open. “You got some side career we don't know about? 'Cause this car is hella pimp-tastic.”

“Just get in.”

The supermarket is packed in a way neither of them anticipate. After-school moms have their children piled into grocery carts and teenagers park themselves along the magazine rack. Middle aged bachelors take up their baskets and there's a spill on aisle seven. A family of five nearly runs over Cas as he leans to take a red, plastic basket from the stack by the doors.

“Watch it, Camaro,” Meg says as she pulls him out of the way. She doesn't bother letting go of his arm after that.

There's a pyramid of cans at the front: pasta sauce on sale. It's not as good as homemade, but he's pretty good at doctoring it up enough for it to be called tasty. “What about spaghetti?” he asks, already thinking about what he'll need. Basil, oregano, maybe some shredded chicken breast for texture.

“I'm not a fan of pasta, and the red sauce makes me gag,” Meg replies, complete with unnecessary sound effects.

There goes that idea. “Curry?” he asks next, just as an idea.

Meg grimaces. “Too spicy.”

“Tell me again why I should cook for you?”

She shrugs. “I can't help I'm a picky eater. You can take it up with my mom.”

This idea is getting worse by the minute, Cas groans inwardly. Meg passes on the next three meals he throws her way, but she does finally okay a simple stir-fry. “Vegetables, oil, and I'm assuming you have cooking utensils?” he has to ask as they make their way over to produce, nearly side-swiping the cart of an elderly couple who pull out ahead of them. It's almost as dangerous as driving.

The old lady mumbles to the old man, pointing her finger in their direction with a disappointing wave. Cas doesn't quite know what's going on, and he's more than happy to just go about his business, but Meg pauses, pulling on his arm. “I'm telling you, Clarence, some people's kids,” she says just loud enough for them to hear.

Cas doesn't make comment, but that is the fifth time that day she's called him Clarence. It might be her favorite, for reasons he doesn't understand. She leads him down the aisle, past the coolers and a display of Twinkies and Ding-Dongs before they make it to a stand of bananas. She plucks a gathering of five and says something about breakfast. He prays he's not still around by then.

“So tell me more about yourself,” she requests in her own demanding way as they're perusing the bell peppers. The selection isn't very good, and it's not like Meg is helping either. Once again, Cas asks himself why he's doing this at all. “You know, so I'm not bored out of my mind,” she finishes.

Cas picks up a yellow and a green pepper. Snow peas next, and then a small head of cabbage. He's glad he doesn't need tomatoes for this, from the sight of them. “I thought you were going to make me a back story.”

She seems to mull over it a minute before she brightens, bouncing where she stands, shoulder leaned against the wall. “Alright, but then you have to pretend it's the truth for the rest of the day.”

Cas promises nothing.

“Your name is...Casper. You moved here from Maine, away from your five controlling, overly aggressive brothers, with your pet chinchilla. It bites. Your apartment is run-down, probably worse than mine, but it'll do as you work your way through...hmm, this is tougher than I thought.” She plucks up a bottle of pomegranate juice and tosses it into the basket. “What's your dream job, Cas?”

It's the first time today she's used a variation of his actual name. “I don't know; I've never really thought about it.”

They're done in produce. Just need to pick up some olive oil, maybe a small bottle of teriyaki for flavor. But as they pass the bakery on their way down to seasonings, Meg tosses in a plastic-container of apple-cinnamon scones. He starts to wonder just who's going to be paying for it all.

“Well think harder,” she tells him when he doesn't offer up anything better. “You're not doing my story any favors here.”

Story. It _is_ a story. It could go any way he wants it to. Something about the idea appeals to him and he's actually making an effort to think of options. “I think...I'd like to write about Hank,” he finally settles on. Mostly because it'd make Gabriel happy. And that's all he really wants.

“Who the hell is Hank?”

“He's a colorblind cat. He's very understanding of children and he solves mysteries.”

Meg laughs sardonically, arm looped through his again. “Whatever floats your boat, Clarence. So you're an author of children's stories, I'm guessing. But not published yet. It's a dream and a goal and you're working at the Kwik-e-Mart-”

“Gas-n-Sip,” Cas corrects.

“The Trash-n-Crash,” Meg amends, “for the foreseeable future. Until you land an agent. You have a girlfriend, but the relationship is new-”

“Boyfriend,” Cas throws in. He's not quite sure why. He's not opposed to the idea of having a girlfriend, but the word is out of his mouth before he can reel it back in. He keeps walking, hoping Meg won't make a big deal out of it.

“Boyfriend? Oh that's right. You bat for both teams.”

Cas doesn't say a word.

“So, boyfriend. Tall, I'm guessing?”

“Taller than me.” He just cannot shut himself up today. “Just a bit. Blonde, only in the sunlight. Very nice hands. Eyes like pine needles and bark.”

Meg halts, tugging at his arm. “That sounds disgusting and painful.”

“I meant the color.” He knows exactly who he's describing and hates himself for it. He hasn't had a crush—god, at the thought—since the lone art class he took during sophomore year. He still recalls the way Hael's skin was always smeared with acrylic, from her fingers to her elbows. The apron she wore was never in better condition.

She'd acted like she liked him too. He could always see her teeth, knew she was smiling. And the way she'd tossed her soft hair over her shoulder, refusing to tie it back in a hair band... He could have watched her for years.

Until the day her boyfriend beat the shit out of him right in front of his own house. She'd stood by, watching on, claimed she was just trying to be nice but that his staring was just too creepy.

“That was pretty specific,” Meg breaks through his trip down memory lane. “You already got someone in mind? Or should we be on the lookout for someone with those very qualifications? Oh, wait—wait. Guy from the text the other day. What was his name? Sounded kind of douchey?”

He's not about to tell her. The soft smile he feels breaking through is probably confirmation enough.

“Casper, you dog.” Meg bats at his arm with her free hand. “If he breaks your heart, I claim right to stomp his ass into the ground.”

“I didn't know you cared so much.”

“Well you _are_ cooking me dinner.”

They find the olive oil no problem, and the teriyaki just feet away. Meg says something about riding the cotton pony and she's off after that, gone without him to the feminine hygiene section while he peruses the spices and wishes he'd picked up some fresh garlic. Suffice it to say garlic powder will have to do for now. He adds in a container of salt and pepper each, just to make sure.

The basket is overflowing now, and he wonders if they shouldn't have gotten a cart—maybe not a full size one, but one of the smaller ones with the twin baskets. He's just looking to rearrange a bit when someone bumps into him from behind.

“Sorry man,” the obviously male voice says. Cas turns and the man stiffens, as though he's surprised, though Cas can't fathom why he would be.

“It's quite alright. No harm done.”

“Hey,” the man says next. His skin is red, like he's been out in the sun far too long and it's shiny and sticky with aloe gel. His hair is dark, wet and raked back, like he's just finished showering, but hadn't bothered to comb. “What are you doing here?”

Cas's head tilts to the side in silent confusion. Is it really not obvious what he's doing here?

Before he can give reply (not that he really wants to), Meg is back with her crinkly purple jacket, box of tampons in one hand as her other loops through Cas's arm again. She's seen at least half of the exchange, he knows. “You gonna introduce me to your friend?” she asks. Her voice edges on teasing.

“I would if I knew who he was.” It's the truth; he has no idea who's standing in front of him. This would be a good time to explain, but the words don't come out. His hand aches to go to his pocket, but he can't with this heavy basket on one arm and Meg on the other.

“Seriously?” the man asks.

Cas looks—he tries so hard to find some sort of clue. His whole body shakes and he knows Meg is watching him funny. He can feel her eyes on him, but he can't turn away from the hole the green eyes in front of him are currently boring through his head. He just—green eyes. The voice is familiar too. Could it— _Dean_?

He runs hot, his face and arms turning a rosy red, bright enough to match the man's—Dean's—sunburn. He can feel the sweat start to pool under his arms as his body continues to tremble and his breathing hitches. He's panicking, he knows. He recognizes the symptoms and his brain can't quite string together the words he should be saying.

“I'm sorry.”

It's apparently the wrong thing to say.

Dean goes from confused to rigid before Cas can blink. “Yeah, well, fuck you too, Cas. I thought you were better than that.”

“No...” Cas starts, twisting his way out of Meg's hold, but Dean's already turned on his heel. Cas watches in silent desperation as he goes, as fast as he can with his own plastic basket. And why shouldn't he? This is the big fuck-up, this moment right here.

His eyes burn and he has to wipe at them before anything actually comes out. 

"You wanna tell me what that was all about?”

“That—that was Dean.” He almost can't get the words out. He doesn't look at Meg; just keeps staring at the direction Dean had retreated in. “That was Dean and I didn't realize...”

“How could you not, if you know him?”

“It's—I...” He can't, because fuck. Fuck it all. Fuck everything. He can't anymore. He has to sit down, so he shoves the basket to the floor and follows it on the way down. His head goes to his knees and he can't think. His mind goes round and round in circles and he's not at all aware of Meg's presence until her hand pushes through his hair. “I can't see faces. I can't remember faces. Something's wrong with my brain.”

“And you didn't think to tell him that?”

No, no he hadn't. He's so used to hiding away from the world, he doesn't know how to. The worst part about it all: There's no one to tell him to breathe.


	7. Chapter 7

The left couch cushion is starting to grow a nicely-sized indent that is Cas's ass. He hasn't moved from that spot all weekend, save to use the bathroom, and once to check the mail Saturday afternoon after Anna told him to get off his lazy rear and do something. The light had been far too bright and he'd come back in even worse for the wear.

Gabriel is pressed against his side as they both stare blank faced at the bright colors of whatever cartoon program is blaring in front of them. Cas stopped paying attention about half an hour ago. It's been an in and out process since Friday night after his botched dinner plans with Meg. She'd said she wouldn't hold it against him, but he already knows what she's probably saying about him at work. _Freak_. Just like the kids in school all those years ago.

And Dean. He can't even stand to think about him. His sinuses start to burn and his eyes water. More than this one, singular encounter, he knows that he'll never have a normal friendship, a normal relationship. Dean is the straw that breaks the camel's back, something that has been long coming.

The thoughts won't stop and Cas can only combat them with self-loathing. “Shut up,” he finds himself mumbling every time it gets a little too loud in his own head. “Shut up, you’re so stupid. Stop it.”

Except that he can't.

Saturday had been a rare day off, and he called in today, saying he was sick. Charlie hadn't sounded as though she believed him, but as long as he didn't have to work, he didn't really care. She can ask all the questions she wants when he goes back. Eventually. If he doesn't decide to quit before then. The prospect is looking better and better as each day passes.

Anna won't be happy about it, but she'll get over it too. He just can't right now. His limbs feel too heavy, like he's not getting near enough oxygen. His head aches. He can't sleep. And every so often, his heart will leap against the inside of his chest as though it's on a race to the finish line. All the cups of hot peppermint tea in the world won't calm him down.

“You're sad,” Gabriel tells him, looking up without his usual hat on. It's in the wash along with all the bath towels they've used over the past week.

“How can you tell?” Cas asks. It's not like Gabriel can read his face. The same way Cas hadn't been able to see the hurt in Dean's. But he'd sure as hell heard it in his voice. It's funny; he would have done anything to retain the sound of it before, and now he can't escape it.

Gabriel shrugs, turning back to the television. The screen changes and it's Spongebob for the thousandth time that weekend. “You sigh a lot. And your hands shake. You aren't talking very much either.”

“I never talk all that much.”

“You do when it's me.”

Add guilt onto the mountain of disparaging emotions he's got stacked on his chest. “How about some ice cream? Do you want some ice cream?” he asks instead of addressing the problem at hand. He's never resorted to bribing the boy before, but there's a first time for everything.

“The lady at school says we should talk about whatever is bothering us by using our grown up words. That means no shouting, no moping. It's called communication,” Gabriel explains with all the air of a forty-five-year-old psychologist on his fifth degree. “And yes, I want ice cream.”

Cas huffs out a single, solitary laugh, the first one in what feels a very long time. “Okay, I'll get you some ice cream.”

All they have in the freezer is Rocky Road. Gabriel doesn't really need the extra sugar that comes with it, but if it'll get him on a different topic sooner rather than later, Cas can live with that. Anna isn't home right now anyway—something about an emergency at the office.

He takes the whole carton back with the biggest tablespoon he can find.

“Mommy never lets me eat it like this,” Gabriel says thoughtfully when the frozen treat is handed over. He's not going to look a gift horse in the mouth though and the spoon goes in and comes back out with just the tiniest bit. It's still too cold to fully dip; that doesn't stop Gabe from trying.

They sit quietly as the first story in this hundredth episode of Spongebob ends and another comes in its place. Cas has never understood the attraction of undersea life, nor how they can build fires beneath the water.

“So are you going to tell me?”

Cas sighs again. Hadn't they dropped this line of conversation?

“What would you like to know?”

“Duh. Why are you so sad today?” Gabriel asks. As if he hadn't been sad yesterday or the night before that. “You hafta really tell me. 'Cause I tell you everything.”

Cas can't fight the truth. That sharp bit of guilt triples in size and seems to sink lower into his ribcage, prying the bones apart. Damn it. “I'm just sad because, well, because I haven't told anyone yet and it's hard to talk about. This thing that we have. I find it difficult to talk to people about, because I'm afraid they'll look at me differently.”

Gabriel tilts his head. “But you can't see their faces, so what does it matter?”

And people often accuse Cas of taking things too literally. “No, that's not it. I'm afraid that they'll have a different opinion of me. That they'll think I'm weird for having this thing.”

“It's called pro-proso-prosia-gosia,” Gabe stumbles on the syllables, unable to get them out properly. Cas doesn't bother to tell him that's not how you say it. “And Ms. Mosely says that one in fifty people may have it. Or was it fifteen? Sixty-three? That doesn't sound too weird to me.”

“It's not weird,” Cas assures him.

“But you make it sound like it's a bad thing.” He's finally able to get an actual spoonful of ice cream out of the tub and it falls right back in as he's talking. “Is it a bad thing? Can we not tell people?”

Cas shakes his head, but that's not his answer. “I don't-”

“Ms. Mosely said that I should think about it this weekend. If I want to tell the other kids at school. She says that it's my business to tell if I want to or if I don't want to and no one can take that away from me.”

This is news to Cas. Then again, he hadn't exactly been in the right frame of mind to ask how the meeting went after he came home Friday night, tears in his eyes and just wanting to pour himself into bed. “Have you decided?” Cas asks once he finally figures that yes, he can actually breathe.

“Not yet.”

“But what are you leaning toward?”

“You.”

The boy is pressed against him, and Castiel figures this is what he means. Except he doesn't and when the realization hits, their cartoon is over and the front door opens and closes behind them. “Are you letting my son eat ice cream before his dinner?” Anna asks.

Cas pretends he doesn't hear her.

Dinner, some hour later, turns out to be a reheated lasagna they'd had Thursday night and shoved to the back of the fridge. The cheese on top still melts nicely, but Anna sprinkles a little more on top, figuring it can't hurt. Cas doesn't eat much at all—his nerves won't let him. Gabe doesn't either, but that's probably due to all the ice cream.

It's no surprise when he complains of a belly-ache just before bath time.

Gabriel goes to bed earlier than usual, after two separate stories of Hank the Cat and a ginger ale to settle his stomach. It's a wonder he hadn't started bouncing off the walls after that, but Anna had merely commented that he hadn't been sleeping well all weekend.

It's the first Cas has noticed, and he feels ashamed for it. For the first time in days, his crestfallen thoughts of Dean are overshadowed by his nephew and their conversation earlier. “Is it a bad thing?” Gabriel had asked. Is it something to be ashamed of? Cas's first gut response is a very emphatic YES. Yes, because it makes him different, because it makes him unable to connect with people.

He's bursting with anxiety, all those unnamable emotions that drag him down with no real purpose. His heart clenches painfully as he breathes in, his eyes closed and his head resting backward along the back of the couch.

All his life, he's been alone. No matter how many people surround him, it's like he's walking through a sea of drones, all blank faces and no emotion. He remembers the heartache he'd experienced in school, all the promises of becoming better once he was a part of the real world. Lies—all of them.

He bites at his lower lip, chewing and gnawing before it lets it go, stinging in the open air. What's he supposed to tell Gabriel? Better yet, what example does he want to show Gabriel?

Cas does connect with people—Anna and Gabriel, Meg, Dean. _Dean_. And he certainly doesn't want Gabriel growing up thinking that he can't. Right now they're both different from everyone else, but they're also the same and Cas is the only one Gabe has to look up to for guidance. He's a role model now in a way that he never was before and it hangs heavy on his shoulders.

He wants to do better. He just doesn't know how.

Sleep doesn't come easy that night. Cas tosses and turns, and before he knows it, the alarm reads six and he was supposed to be up half an hour ago. He groans into his pillow, mourning the fact that he'd ever agreed to accompany Anna and Gabriel back to his classroom to meet with the counselor and some kind of researcher.

Gabriel is the hardest to wake, but that's nothing new. His eyelids droop until the moment he finishes his bowl of sugary cereal—some chocolate concoction with stale marshmallows—and from there he's usually a little too awake. Today, he just sits and stares at the table.

Anna promises they'll make Gabriel's favorite meal for dinner—chicken and waffles, complete with real maple syrup. It's a little too sweet for Cas's tastes, but he's got to work the evening shift anyway. He's still pondering whether or not to call in, or maybe even just fail to show up, but he knows he'll have to answer his sister's disappointment if he doesn't.

He'll decide later.

Cas himself doesn't eat much of his toast and jam. He's still not too terribly hungry though his stomach rumbles in protest. The act of eating, of doing anything at all, doesn't really appeal to him today, the third in a row.

 

 

The school is just as he remembers, murals painted along every hall, and even one he hadn't seen before—a family of otters down the longest hall where Gabriel's classroom and all the other kindergarten classrooms lie. He's never been down this way, but Anna seems to know where she's going, Gabriel in between them, hands held.

Ms. Mosely meets them just inside, along with a short blonde woman Cas is introduced to as Gabriel's teacher, Mrs. Fitzgerald, and a taller, brown-haired woman named Sarah whom is a researcher at the nearby university.

“I study cognitive disorders, but I'm considering making face blindness my thesis,” she tells them.

The whole thing makes Cas's hands twitch. He hadn't signed on to be some sort of lab rat, and he doesn't like the idea of them using Gabriel as one either. His eyes narrow and he studies her cautiously though he can't read much.

Gabriel, from the moment he walks in, goes straight to his cubby to put away his hat and backpack with a sigh though none of the other students are present just yet. He's already resolved himself to the fact that staying home simply is not an option.

“Sarah here has come up with a list of helpful—what we'll call survival techniques—that might be able to assist Gabriel, and you too as well, Castiel, if you feel like listening,” says Ms. Mosely.

He doesn't need to see her face to know that she's tactfully hinting he has no other option. He nods silently, but his eyes inch in Sarah's direction once again.

The group gathers round a table off on the far side, where arts and crafts are usually done. There are remnants of glitter and glue across the surface that just won't go away no matter how many times it's wiped down. The chairs are small, but not the smallest in the room. Cas can pick out one of Gabriel's paintings on the wall, done up in bright colors with a cat and a mouse.

“That's Hank the Cat,” Mrs. Fitzgerald tells them in a voice that's a little too bright for this early in the morning. “Gabriel tells me all about him at snack time, don't you?” she turns to ask Gabe. He hums a response.

There's the tiniest flicker of pride that wells up in Cas. He hadn't realized that his nephew was so enamored with his stories, that he'd go back and tell his teacher about them the next day. But there's a niggling little part that worries something's wrong with that scenario.

“He's not socializing with the other children,” Anna voices for him.

Gabriel shrugs where he's got his arms folded across the tabletop, little legs kicking the floor under his seat in a sort of comforting rhythm. “They don't like me,” he offers up as an excuse. As though he can put it on their shoulders instead of his.

“Now I don't think that's true at all,” Ms. Mosely says. “Remember what we talked about on Saturday?”

The boy nods. “I don't know if they like me or not because I never talk. And I don't talk because I'm scared. It's okay to be scared,” he recites unenthusiastically. “And I get angry because I don't know how to fix it.”

“Well I think I do,” Mrs. Fitzgerald chirps. Somehow Cas and Gabe both have their doubts, but they don't say anything as she stands from the table and goes to her nearby office. It's not very big—just the size of a cubicle—and they can see through the window as she picks up a cardboard box to bring back with her.

She has to go back for a permanent marker not two seconds later.

“Right,” she nods in satisfaction, “I had an idea over the weekend and I wanted to run it by you, Gabriel. And just in case you think it's a good one, my husband and I made these.” She reaches into the box and pulls out a laminated dinosaur with a clip attached.

“What is it?” Gabriel asks, suddenly entranced. But it's a dinosaur, like Gary at home, so that's no surprise.

“Well, it's a name badge. And everybody's looks different. We'll just write your name, like so,” she says as she leans over and writes Gabriel's name neatly, letter by letter, across the body. “So this way you can identify people by their name badge, and we can study how to spell each others’ names. We'll wear them every day. Even me.” She pulls one in the shape of a fat pencil from the box and writes her name across the middle.

If Cas could see the way Gabe's eyes widen, he'd know just how alike they look in that moment. Gabriel stiffens for all of a second before the surprise washes away and he's left trembling with excitement. His whole body buzzes and hums as he stands from his seat and accepts the proffered dinosaur from his teacher's hand.

This—this could work, Cas realizes. It's a temporary fix, he knows; life won't always have dinosaur name tags, but it's good enough for now.

“This...” Gabriel starts slowly. “I get to keep this?” Mrs. Fitzgerald nods and Anna proudly attaches it to his blue and red giraffe shirt. He can't stop staring at it, transfixed, like he's just been gifted a precious treasure. “And everyone else has to wear one?”

“I think it's a very good idea, Gabriel,” Ms. Mosely offers in her opinion with a soft voice. “Don't you?”

He nods frantically.

“But before all your classmates start to arrive, there's something else we need to talk about.”

Gabriel can't leave his badge alone, touching it, flipping it up so he can see the dinosaur upside down. Anna lays a hand on his back and guides him into his chair. “Gabriel, I want you to pay attention now,” she says carefully.

He does, but his left hand continues to hold onto the dinosaur bearing his name.

“Do you remember what I asked you to think about this weekend?” Ms. Mosely asks. “About whether or not you want to tell the other students about your face blindness?”

The question brings to mind Cas's conversation with Gabriel and his stomach sinks. This—isn't a decision he wants to put on the boy. It's hard enough for Cas to come up with an answer for himself.

“I want to tell them,” Gabriel announces, his little head held high. His lips are pursed in childish determination.

Cas looks up, his eyes wide. “What?”

But Anna places a hand on his arm and shakes her head.

“I thought about it,” Gabriel says. “And I don't like—I'm not...” He pauses, trying to collect his thoughts. It's not easy for him to form them into words. “When I didn't know what was wrong, I felt real bad. Like I didn't know what to do. But...” Again, he pauses. “But now I know and I get to choose.”

“It's your choice, Gabriel,” Mrs. Fitzgerald nods as she speaks. “No one gets to choose for you. Not me, not your mom. No one here but you.”

“That's right, honey,” Anna adds in.

Cas has his doubts. He watches Gabriel intently, his little hands shaking as he plays with the hem of his shirt, lifting it up enough to expose his belly button before he shoves it back down in nervous movement. Like he doesn't realize he's doing it. “I want to,” Gabriel reiterates, and his voice is adamant, almost empowered. Cas decides he can't say anything to that.

Ms. Mosely goes back to her office soon after, as other students start filing in with their parents one by one. There are already too many people in the room, and Cas, Anna, and Sarah talk quietly while Gabriel helps Mrs. Fitzgerald hand a named badge to each and every student. Gabriel can read quite well—has for almost a year now—and he recites the name with a quick _hi_ to each new child.

If the kids think it strange, they don't say anything about it. They merely respond with their own _hi_ or _hello_ before making their way to their own cubbies to hang their belongings.

By the time the first bell rings to signal the start of the day, Gabriel is nestled once again between his uncle and his mother at the arts and crafts table. He rubs his hands together, plays with the hem of his shirt, kicks his feet against the floor. He's nervous.

“You don't have to if you don't want to,” Cas reminds him quietly. He doesn't like the idea of Gabe feeling pressured in any way, even if it's just internally. And some small part of Cas feels as though he's the one about to reveal all.

“I want to,” Gabriel says again. There's no less conviction in his voice. “But...”

“But what?”

“Will you sit with me when I tell them?”

“I...” Cas doesn't answer at first. His hand goes straight to his rosary and he counts to ten. This—this is what he fears most. Telling people. But as he looks around the room, listens to Mrs. Fitzgerald call roll, he realizes he's got no reason to be scared. These are kindergarteners. His _nephew_ is a _kindergartener_ and he's already ten times braver than Cas. “I can't--” he starts again “--not. I can't not.”

Gabriel tilts his head; he's confused.

“That means yes.”

Small arms fit around his neck and Cas stands as he holds onto the boy, carrying him up to the front of the class when Mrs. Fitzgerald explains that Gabriel has something very important to say. The class goes silent as per requested and Cas takes a seat in the rocking chair by the blackboard, Gabriel in his lap.

“Whenever you're ready, Gabriel,” says Mrs. Fitzgerald.

And for the longest time, neither Cas nor Gabe can find the words. They sit still in a chair that just won't until they look out at all the little people watching them back. And their curse becomes a blessing as they realize they can't see them.

“I'm face blind!” Gabriel blurts out a little too quietly, and then his hands to go his mouth. He's shaking and it's frightening and Cas has to do something. But the longer he listens, a little snickering sound wafts its way into his ears. He looks out to the crowd, but it's not coming from any of them. It's coming straight from the little imp on his lap.

Gabriel turns and buries his face against Cas's white shirt.

“Um, hi,” Cas says to the crowd of children, all waiting patiently—or some of them, impatiently, he has no idea—at their desks. “I'm ah...” Mrs. Fitzgerald nods her head in encouragement. “I'm Gabriel's uncle. He and I are a lot alike.” And oh boy, he's really doing this. “You see, we both have a condition called face blindness. It um, it means we can't see or remember faces of the people around us.”

One little girl stands from her chair and makes an exaggerated face, holding the sides of her mouth open as she sticks her tongue out and crosses her eyes. “So you can't see this?” she asks, her voice slurred because of the hold on her mouth.

Cas decides he's never going to have children. Never. “We can see features when they're very exaggerated, very big.”

The girl—Rachel—slumps back down with her arms crossed over her flower badge.

Another little boy raises his hand in the air, waving it from side to side. His name badge is a hotdog, oddly enough. “Yes, Samandriel?” Mrs. Fitzgerald asks.

“How do you tell people apart?” he asks.

“We notice things like hair color and voice. It gets very hard sometimes though. Especially in a place where there are a lot of people, like a classroom.”

Gabriel peeks one eye out, turning ever so slightly to look out at the other kids, before he decides to turn around fully once more, his shaking subsided for the time being.

“Do you see yourself when you look in a mirror?” another girl with a racecar badge asks. Cas can't quite see her name from here. Cla-something or other.

“No!” Gabriel answers before Cas can. “That's why when I'm at home, I wear a monkey hat so I know it's me and not someone else. Do you want to see it?” The girl nods and Gabriel happily races to his backpack to retrieve his hat. It's messy when he pulls it over his head, his hair sticking out at funny angles.

He does a little jig and the children laugh.

“Did you get bit by something?” A little boy with a rocket ship badge asks. “My dog got bit by a snake and we had to make her go to sleep for a long time.”

Gabriel shakes his head where he's poised at the corner of another child's desk, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “No, I think we were born this way.” He looks across the room to Cas. “Isn't that right?”

Cas nods. “Some people are born this way and some get it later in life because of accidents.”

“How did you know you have it?” A girl with a tiger badge asks. Her hands are folded over her desk. She's one of the few not about to launch out of her seat.

“I had to take a picture test!” Gabriel announces happily. “I looked at a bunch of faces and I couldn't see them. And then I looked at faces that were the same, and I couldn't tell they were the same. I looked at faces that were different and couldn't tell. And then I had to look at faces that were upside down. It was a little easier,” he illustrates by pinching his fingers together, “but I still couldn't remember them after.”

One little boy lays back over the top of his desk and lets his head fall over the front, upside down. “Can you see me now?” he asks before Mrs. Fitzgerald tells him to sit properly before he hurts himself. The whole class laughs, even Gabriel.

He's taken all their attention onto himself, left the nerves behind, and is basking in it. Gabriel's always been a natural entertainer, when he's sure of himself. The sight of it makes Cas warm. It's not supposed to be this easy, and he's slightly jealous of his five-year-old nephew, but not enough to hold it against him. He looks to Anna, sees her wiping something from her face—a tear, probably. He doesn't know if it's sad or happy, but if the way he's feeling is any indication, they're going to be alright. 


	8. Chapter 8

_Castiel: I'm sorry, Dean. Please let me explain._

It's the first of many texts along the same line that really don't do any good. He gets one reply, and that's only after another thirty texts sent over the course of four days.

_Dean: Fuck off._

What's more is that Charlie is giving him the cold shoulder. It eventually evolves into side-eyeing him like she has something to say. Whatever it is, he wishes she'd just come out and say it. He knows what a terrible person he looks like.

He presses send on yet another variation.

“Really, Clarence?” He hadn't heard Meg behind him, yet there she is, peering around his arm. She pulls the phone from his grasp and scrolls through his past week of misery. “You wanna come off as a psycho stalker?” she asks next, one brow raised.

“No.” But he doesn't know what else to do. Dean won't accept his calls.

“Why don't you just explain?” She leaves his little bubble to ring up the only customer in the store—a little old man in socks and sandals with a case of beer that hasn't been chilled by the cooler. He's missing two teeth, Cas notices in raw fascination, when he leers exaggeratedly at Meg.

“Are they always that bad?” he asks aloud once the man is conveniently on the other side of the door.

“Yes. But don't dodge the question, Cas. All you gotta do is pull that pretty head of yours out your ass and lay the cards out on the table.” She waves her hand over the counter, as if by example, but it's not helpful at all.

“You just don't understand,” he throws out the most clichéd line ever. “If I have to do this, it needs to be face to face.”

“Don't you mean face to blank face?” she jokes. It's not funny, not even a bit, but Meg is the only person past his immediate family and a classroom of five and six-year-olds that know, so he can't bring himself to be angry.

_Castiel: Please, just let me explain in person. I'm so sorry._

This time the message bounces back to him some ten seconds later. He sighs and shoves his phone back into his pocket with a frown. Maybe it's time to let it go. He's learned his lesson, after all, and he's going to be alright with or without Dean. But it still hurts.

He can see how painful the encounter had been from Dean's point of view. His continued pursuit—Cas sighs, telling himself to let it go. It's not worth deepening this hole he's dug himself into.

Thankfully, Meg leaves him alone after that. She's only got an hour left in her shift and Charlie tells her to empty the cans outside before she goes. Cas watches both as he rings up another set of customers: a mom and her two soccer-playing children with twin bottles of Gatorade, followed by a man in a business suit whom just can't seem to put his phone down long enough to pull a ten from his wallet.

And in the middle of it all, enters a black woman with a red rose pinned to her hair. Cas can't help the warm smile despite the disappointing day he's had. “Hello Ms. Mosely,” he says.

“Hello, Castiel. How did you know?”

He nods toward her. “The red rose in your hair. You always wear it.”

“Well, it _is_ my favorite.” Her voice is a pleasant kind of sass, comforting more than complaining, and he wishes he'd known her back when he'd been in grade school. She's so much nicer, so much wiser than the cold, unfeeling psychiatrists his parents and the school board insisted he talk to.

But he supposes it's better late than never. Between Ms. Mosely and Sarah, he'd gotten a lot off his chest and they'd both promised to find a professional for Cas and Gabriel to talk to, even if it had to be via video-conference.

“How was school today?” he asks once she makes it back to the front with a bag of cheap cat food.

“The first time in many days your nephew was not a guest in my office. I'm told he read to the class while Mrs. Fitzgerald looked over their homework after recess. And no one was pushed into the mud.”

That—is very good news. Cas can't hold back his laugh.

She pulls a five from her suitcase of a purse and hands it over. Her fingers are warm when he gives her the change. “But what about you, honey?” she asks. “Can't imagine there's too much excitement going on around here.”

Cas shakes his head. “None at all. I'm trying to be more open about things...” he decides to tell her. It can't hurt, after all. “It's both easier and harder than I'd thought.”

“Oh, I'm sure you'll get the hang of it eventually.” She waves off into the corner and he spins round to see Charlie poking her head out the office. She gasps and pulls herself back in, like she hadn't just been listening in on the conversation. “Looks as good a place to start as any,” Ms. Mosely says. “Just make sure you're understanding of others too.”

She's right. Castiel counts at his rosary beads as Ms. Mosely ducks out of the store, leaving him alone. He winds around the stool Meg insists they keep behind the counter for her comfort, and leans against the doorframe of the office. Charlie's got her back to him, and she's typing away furiously at a spreadsheet on her computer screen.

“Charlie, can we talk?”

She nearly jumps out of her seat and then turns to face him with the biggest forced smile he's ever seen. Not that he's seen an abundance of smiles. “Sure, Cas,” she grinds out. But then she's sighing and her body goes lax as she stands. “Look, I don't know what's happened, exactly...”

“Dean's told you.” He should have expected this.

“Well, not so much. I mean, I know it has to do with you. I kind of pick up on these things. But I kind of had to drag it out of him. Lots of alcohol, lots of pie.” Her hands are in front of her, fidgeting with her blue smock vest. “I think I kinda know what's going on though. And you gotta understand, it's scary at first, but it's so much better, so much freer once you finally come out.”

He's honestly got no idea what she's talking about, but she's on a roll, so he stands silently as she continues in her tirade, hands gesturing wildly about. “I don't know if it's your family that doesn't approve, or what. Maybe you're just afraid of people looking at you differently. But Cas, man, you can't change the way you were born. There's no shame in being what you are, who you are. In fact, it's kinda beautiful, when you take a deeper look.”

She takes a breath. He's getting dizzy just listening to the rapidity of her words. “I know when I came out, not everyone approved. But fuck those guys, Cas. You're amazing just the way you are.”

Oh— _oh_. He gets it now. And while she's mostly got it wrong, he can appreciate the sentiment for what it is. It gives him a bit of strength and he's standing taller now, fingers stilled around the beads instead of counting.

“At the same time, you gotta do things at your own pace, I guess. But Cas, you have to understand, not everyone is hiding. And what you did to Dean—Cas, that's just plain hurtful. I know he looks all bark and bite, but underneath he's just a softie with an ooey gooey center, and I just--”

Cas holds up his hands in a placating gesture. For now, just for now, he desperately needs her to stop before she falls over. “Charlie, stop.”

Her mouth clamps closed but it's more than apparent she wants to keep going.

“Charlie, I'm not in the closet,” he tells her. “And I'm not ashamed of my sexuality.”

“Then why?” There's confusion in her voice. It's slower now, and she pushes a hand through her red hair.

“I'm face blind.”

There, he's said it. And he can't take it back.

“You—what?”

“I'm face blind. It means that I can't remember faces. I have trouble seeing them at all, really. On a scale of one to ten, I'd place myself at about a nine. So that's why I'm so bad with people. I can't see whom I'm talking to. I mean, I can see them, but I can't see their face, can't read facial cues. Unless they're very pronounced, I mean.” Now he's the one rambling.

She's nodding and then reaching for her phone over on the desk. She types in a search like she has to reassure herself she's not crazy—or he's not crazy. But the results must come back to her satisfaction. “Okay, so that's actually a thing. Wow.”

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. I suppose I _was_ in the closet, to a degree. If you want to look at it from that perspective.”

“So then my inspiring speech was on the spot after all?”

“A bit.”

“Score one for Charlie.” She pumps her fist in front of her as discreetly as she can, and ultimately fails. Not that either of them really care.

They stand in silence then, because he's not sure what else to say. Should he elaborate? Should he apologize again for not telling her sooner? Or should he turn on his heel and get back to work? He's leaning toward the third option.

“You know you gotta tell him,” she says.

He doesn't even have to ask whom she's talking about. “I think he's blocked me. I've been texting him all day and he just won't answer. Won't pick up either. I wanted to tell him in person.”

Charlie nods. “Yeah, I guess that _is_ the sort of thing you'd want to say to a person's face... um...”

But Cas just waves it off. “Forget it. Meg's already made about twelve bad jokes on the subject. But maybe I should just leave Dean alone from now on. The damage is already done.”

“No way!” They're both startled by her passion on the subject. “I mean, sure, Dean's pretty banged up about it, but it's nothing a well-aimed explanation won't solve. Granted, you gotta get him to actually shut up and listen long enough and then you might have to give him a few days to believe it. But it's doable.”

That doesn't sound entirely promising to Cas's ears. “I don't know, Charlie. He's pretty determined not to hear me out.

“Just think about it, okay, Cas? If you want, I can put a good word in for you.”

Cas can't say no to that, even if he has a feeling it'll have little to no effect on how Dean sees him. From their few conversations, he already knows Dean's pretty stubborn. Once he's made up his mind on something, there's not a lot of hope in turning him.

The rest of the afternoon goes just as slowly. Cas puts his phone away and refuses to look at it, even if he can't stop thinking about it. Meg leaves before he does, offering him one last unhelpful “get your shit together, Clarence.” It's said with a nod and a hand on his arm, so he assumes she's not completely annoyed by his moping.

Chuck comes in not long after and Cas takes it upon himself to do all the work, just to get his mind off things. Not that Chuck complains, sitting behind the counter with an old memo book and a thin-tip sharpie marker. He says the smell helps him concentrate. Cas has his doubts.

Charlie, thankfully, leaves him alone. He cleans the bathroom after a ten-year-old doesn't quite make it to the toilet after school, the mother unhelpfully shrugging her shoulders as she asks “what can you do?” Then he has to refill the dairy cooler, starting with the skim milk that runs out faster than the whole. The egg lady comes in at three-thirty for another two dozen and he wonders what she must be making, because she'd only been in two days before.

On and on it goes until it's five to four-thirty and Charlie asks him to take some empty cardboard boxes out to the recycling bin by the road on his way out. He loads them up under his arms, taking the time to clock out before, and then he's out the door.

It's windy out and there's heaviness on the air that feels like rain. He hopes it doesn't start before he gets home.

As he's piling the folded boxes into the open window of the recycling container, he hears a loud, high-pitched whining. It starts out small and grows louder the closer it gets, and soon enough he can actually see the red rescue truck zooming by with its sirens and lights on full display.

 _Dean_.

Cas tells himself to breathe.

In actuality, he has no idea whether it was Dean or not. He doesn't know Dean's schedule, so he convinces himself it was another shift onboard. That this isn't the closest he'll ever be to Dean again, standing on the side of the street, completely unknown.

Done with his chore, Cas piles into his car and starts the short drive home with a miserable sigh.

He soothes himself best he can with thoughts of dinner—it's his turn to cook, he realizes, and he has no idea what's in their freezer. He thinks there might be a pack of ground turkey and that it might be time for spaghetti again. They don't have french bread, but he can make do with leftover hotdog buns, which Gabriel seems to appreciate more anyway.

His thoughts go on and on until he pulls onto his street and sees the red rescue truck again. In his yard. And oh god, he really can't stop his heart from racing now. Gabriel? Anna? It's time for both of them to be home by now.

Cas parks in the neighbor's yard since the truck takes up his space in the driveway and he's flinging the door open before he even gets the car turned off.

“Anna!” he shouts as he makes his way through the house. The front door's standing wide open and he leaves it that way. No answer comes straight away, so he tries again and again. The backdoor opens and she steps in, waving him over.

“Your nephew,” she says as she shakes her head.

“What's wrong?” He's still panicked, his heart racing and his breathing labored. “Where's Gabriel?”

She doesn't answer, instead leading him out to the backyard with an exasperated sigh. She points high up to the tree house where both firefighters are leaned up on ladders, surrounding a small head that's poking out between two boards near the base.

“Pushed his head through,” Anna tells him. “When I asked him why, he said just to see if he could. I'm tempted to be angry, but this is more his style than what we were dealing with last week.”

Cas knows the spot. He'd been meaning to fix where the boards had rotted away from water damage, but he hadn't quite gotten around to it yet.

They both walk around the perimeter, far enough away that Gabriel can see them from where he is, chilling until the firefighters work him free. “Hi, Uncle Cas!” he calls with a wide smile. One of the firefighters freezes until the other—a short, blonde woman—says something Cas can't hear from there.

They've got blankets shoved in around his neck, to protect from the protruding wood, all splintered and damaged. They lay another one over the top of his head just to make sure. Once Gabe is hidden from view, the woman starts pounding away at some of the more damaged boards with a hammer, just a regular ball-peen.

Cas tries to calm himself. It's pretty obvious that Gabe's in no real danger, other than a few possible splinters. But he can't drag his eyes away from the male firefighter moving his way over to crawl in through the open door of the tree house where Gabriel's body is laid out over the floor.

“That's him, right?” Anna asks, like she knows exactly what he's thinking. It never ceases to amaze Cas how much more adept she is at reading people.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” he replies stubbornly. Anna's pretty much confirmed it for him though. That's Dean, right there, helping his mischievous nephew out of a tree house. He watches in cruel anticipation as the boards come loose enough, small bits dropping to the ground below, and Dean edges Gabe back inside.

He climbs back down with Gabriel wrapped around his front, arms around his neck and legs around his waist.

“You could have waited for me to get here,” Cas tells Anna. “I could've taken care of it.”

She shrugs. “I forgot what time you were getting off work today.”

Even if he can't see her face, he knows when she's lying. He highly doubts she'd put Gabriel up to anything, but she knows how to take advantage of a situation.

“You didn't know it'd be him.”

Her hands are behind her back as she bounces on the balls of her feet. “So I took my chances.”

The conversation comes to an abrupt end when Dean reaches them, setting Gabriel back on his feet beside his mother. He puts a hand on the boy's head, messing his hair beneath the monkey hat. “There you go, little dude.”

Gabriel looks up at him brightly. “Thanks, Dean!”

Anna offers her thanks too, but just as Cas is about to give his, mouth parted to speak, Dean turns around without even acknowledging him. He reaches out, takes Dean by the back of his sleeve. Just a pinch, really. Dean looks back at him and Cas wishes he knew what he's thinking. There's the green of his eyes shining in the lowering sunlight just over the roof of the house, but from there Cas can't see anything else. The height of his eyebrows, the purse of his lips, none of it fits into the equation that Cas takes in.

“Please, Dean,” he says and hates himself for sounding so sad.

The green disappears and Cas realizes Dean has closed his eyes against the sight of him. “Cas, I'm working,” he says simply. As if there's any other time Cas can talk to him. Maybe that's the whole of it. Cas lets go.

His heart falls. This—it wasn't a good idea.

He watches the ground as he listens to them finish up, carrying the ladders through the gate into the front yard, and ignores the not-so-subtle way Anna smacks his arm as she follows them. Cas can't make his feet move. He stands still and gives up.

“What are you doing?” Gabriel whines and starts pulling at the hem of Cas's blue vest. “Mommy said you were sad because you weren't going to see Dean! This is your chance!”

“Did you—did you get your head stuck on purpose?”

“I'm not stupid.” _Unlike you_ goes unsaid.

That doesn't exactly answer his question. Cas lets his eyes fall closed, rubbing at the side of his face. He's too tired for this. “Look, Gabe, it's fine. Dean and I didn't know each other all that well anyway. We only talked a few days, so it's not going to be hard to get over for either of us.” _Lies_.

“That's not the point!” Gabe all but shouts as he stomps his foot against the dirt below.

“You know better than to raise your voice,” Cas says. In reality, he just wants this conversation to be over with. He hears the sound of the truck start up and some second later, hears it pull away. It's too late, way too late.

Cas turns to walk back in the house, with or without Gabriel. As he reaches the door, lifting his hand to pause at the frame, he hears his nephew shout once more: “What about next time!” Cas keeps going.

What about next time indeed.

The next time he meets someone he's interested in? Well, at this point, he can't see himself finding anyone that's not Dean. But that's probably the depression and this deep hole he's in talking. Rationally, he knows he could find someone else. But like Gabriel had said—what then?

It's sad when a five-year-old figures these things out before he does.

He recalls Charlie's words: make Dean shut up and listen and eventually he'll get over it. Well, getting him to shut up hadn't been a problem at all. Rather, it'd been getting Dean to even acknowledge Cas's existence. And then it hits him, like a ton of bricks fallen on his chest, making it hard to breathe. What must Dean have felt like to have a reaction like that? Or lack of reaction, really.

Cas realizes Dean's not just angry—he's hurt. And Cas is the one who did it. He's so used to being hurt himself, to being disappointed and teased, made fun of, called terrible names, that he's failed to see they were both in this.

He has to do _something_. 


	9. Chapter 9

Cas passes Anna on her way in the front door, but he doesn't stop to answer any of her questions. “Cas? Where are you going?” she shouts after him. Later, he promises her silently. His car is as he'd left it, but he can see the damage done to the neighbor's grass now and knows he'll have to have one hell of an explanation when old Mrs. Garcia gets home later.

The drive to the station is spent stewing in his seat, cursing the driver in front of him for going at least five under the speed limit. But traffic is heavy and there's no real way to pass him. He taps his fingers against the steering wheel and pretends he doesn't have ants in his pants. It's only made worse when he hits just about every red light on the way over.

The air doesn't bother to work anymore, so he has to roll down the window for relief from the hot sun. The resulting breeze is just cool enough to sway the sweat that's started gathering along his hairline and the back of his neck.

Soon enough the station comes into view and he's craning his neck forward just to see it through the trees next door. The large garage-style door is standing open and he can see the rescue truck parked inside from the street, but the fire engine is missing, out on call. He hadn't realized they could be out on different emergencies like that. He pulls around back to the parking lot and slides his car in beside Dean's, wondering if it's such a good idea.

As anxious as he was to get here, he can't help taking five minutes to collect himself before he actually gets out. He even goes so far as to try and tame the mess of hair on his head. Not that it does much good, or really matters. He has no guarantee of collecting Dean's forgiveness today.

The door of his car squeaks far too loudly when he opens it. There's no one in the parking lot and he can't help but be grateful.

Taking advantage of the open back door, he slinks in quietly the same way he'd come before to fetch Gabriel, feeling very much like a trespasser. Perhaps he should have brought the boy, since he's so keen on being the brave one these days.

The chairs are all turned upside down on the table. Dishes are sat in the draining board by the sink. The television is on in the corner, but it's muted, playing the end of a baseball game that no one's around to pay attention to. It's not baseball season, so it must be a repeat. The Braves are up by four.

“Can I help you?” asks a female voice, startling him out of his thoughts. He spins to the right and there's a blonde woman—probably the same one who'd broken Gabriel free of his treetop prison. She's standing with her hands on her hips, her posture guarded to the max. He winces on impact.

Her nametag reads Harvelle, and he vaguely remembers her speaking during Balthazar's news segment. He'd watched it the day it aired, hoping to catch a glimpse of Dean, or more importantly hear his voice, but there'd been no such luck.

“I'm um, I'm here to see Dean?” he asks, unsure. His hand is in his pocket before he knows it, and he actually pulls the beads out this time, moving them back and forth between his fingers. “I mean, he might not want to see me, but I have to explain. He doesn't understand and it's all my fault.” He shuffles from side to side, his eyes falling to the floor. He doesn't understand why he's telling her all of this, but if it gets him any closer to Dean, it's worth the bungling.

She lets out a long breath and tucks a stray piece of her blonde hair behind one ear. “Listen, Dean's not really fit for company right now.”

“I need to see him,” Cas says adamantly, perhaps a little too quickly. “Please.”

“I'm guessing you're Cas.”

She knows his name, so she probably _knows_ , just like Charlie. And this, standing here staring her down, feels like more of a challenge than it should be.

“You know, that was a pretty shitty thing you did, pretending you didn't know him like that.”

He knows, he _knows_. But it's also not what it looks like. He wishes the world would leave him alone long enough to explain. “I wasn't pretending,” he says, his voice strained by the impatience of it all. “I honestly wasn't. It's a misunderstanding.”

She hesitates for a moment, her hands balling into fists at her sides before relaxing and going to rest backwards at the small of her back. “Ugh, fine. I'm tired of his whining anyway. Just slip in through there.” She gestures vaguely at an open door behind her.

He mumbles his thanks and does as she says, stepping through the doorway and out into the bay. The rescue truck is visible immediately, but Dean is nowhere in sight. Neither is the engine, and he prays he'll be able to talk with Dean before it gets back and he has another handful of angry firefighters on his case.

Cas peeks out the front first, his footsteps echoing against the concrete of the open area. The sun is going to set soon, casting shadows inward, across all the extra equipment they have stored against the walls and the huge map hung nearby. He pauses to look, sees the district the station covers within the city, as well as his own street, and then makes his way to the other side of the rescue truck. 

He hears the slosh of water before he actually sees anyone. Sure enough though, there's a man holding the handle of a mop next to a bucket, his back turned to Cas. He's moving as though it's a practiced chore, something he's done time and time again, but his shoulders look heavy under the blue of his uniform, tense like he hasn't slept well in days. Maybe Cas is projecting though. He has no idea if it's Dean, but he has to take a chance.

“Dean?” he asks, just a little too loudly and backs away from the force of his own voice. This is it. He knows from the way the man freezes that he's found his target. His back goes rigid and Cas finds himself wanting to work the kinks out himself.

He has no right.

The man turns, green eyes wide, like he's just checking to make sure he's not hearing things. A shadow appears to fall over him and it makes it that much harder for Cas to see his features. He doesn't know whether to blame the fading sunlight, or Dean for schooling his face into calmness. He goes back to his job, pushing the mop left and then right over the concrete floor before repeating the process.

Cas takes a step forward, the hand clasping his rosary outstretched ever so slightly for reasons he doesn't quite understand. It's not like he can reach out and touch Dean. Not like this. No matter how much he wants to.

He looks to Dean's hands, stretched too tightly around the handle of the mop. They're red and white, pained even. Not like they were when Dean was showing Gabriel how to tie knots, all practiced and assured.

“What do you want?” Dean’s voice is hard. Cas does his best not to flinch away from it. “Kinda busy here, Cas, if you don’t mind.”

It's not a suggestion.

Cas grips the beads tighter, like he might break if he lets go. He closes his eyes and shakes his head to the ground. “I just thought... We need to talk, Dean.” His voice is smaller than it should be, so he clears his throat and steps forward. “I need you to listen for five minutes.”

Like Charlie said, make him listen.

“How about you listen, Cas? You know, I've put up with a lot of shit in my life, but I'm not about to put up with yours too.” He moves the mop to the side within the bucket, like he's going to force the whole thing over, he's so angry. “There was a long time when I couldn't face up to who I was, but I never once treated one of my friends the way you treated me. Like I wasn't worth knowing.”

“Dean, that's not it at all...” Cas starts, his jaw tight until it's shaking. His lower lip too. He knows what it looks like, gets that from Dean's point of view he kind of deserves this.

“I get it now. You've got a girlfriend and you didn't want her to know about me.”

“Meg's not--”

Dean goes on ignoring him. “Fuck, I really liked you, Cas. And I hate to go all Lifetime here, but you fucking led me on, plain and simple. So why should I stand here and listen to a word you have to say? I get it—you're sorry, you feel bad. But sometimes sorry just ain't enough. Especially not when you--”

Cas can't take it anymore. “ _Prosopagnosia_ ,” he says without preamble. He's jumped right in, he can't take it back. Not that he wants to.

Dean straightens. “Say what?”

“It’s Latin,” Cas explains in a shaky ramble. His shoulders slump and his arms drag at his sides. “ _Prosop_ meaning face and _agnosia_ meaning blind. Some people can’t distinguish between other people’s faces. They can’t retain it in their memory and…”

Dean interrupts. “That’s real nice, Cas, but what’s that got to do with the here and now?”

“Dean,” Cas pleads. Just listen and understand, he wants to say. His eyes water and one tear manages its way overboard before Cas messily wipes it up with the sleeve of his shirt. “I’m trying to tell you I’m a prosopagnosic. It’s—it's why I couldn’t recognize you the other day. Or ever, really. I don’t even know how many times we’ve actually met.”

He kind of hates himself for it.

“Eleven.” Dean’s voice still has that edge to it. “And do you really expect me to believe something like that?”

“It's the truth.” He understands now, Gabriel's urge to stomp his foot when he becomes so unbelievably laden with sadness that it's frustrating. Cas settles with biting his lips until they're sore and digging his fingernails into his palms. “Yesterday I—I came out to a class of kindergarteners, and you know what? It was scary. I'm scared, no, I'm _terrified_ , standing here, telling you this.”

He pleads, his hands going forward to gesture his desperation, palms up, one still holding onto the rosary. It threads between his fingers, biting into the skin. “I'm scared you'll think I'm weird, messed up, but I'm telling you anyway. I don't connect with people, Dean. I just don't. But you—you're different. I thought... I thought with you I could actually breathe for once.”

But as he's standing here telling Dean, he finds he can. Maybe this is the point Gabriel had been talking about. He takes a long inhale in, smells the soap and water in the mop bucket, the smell of green and outside just beyond the station. It's lighter than ever before, despite the sadness and the tears.

Dean stops with his work, moving the bucket against the wall for safekeeping. He examines Cas, looking him up and down as a sort of test. And in a way, it is. For Cas as well. If Dean decides it's all nonsense, or that he can't forgive Cas... well, at least Cas tried. It's the first time he's ever felt so open and he finds that he can finally live with himself no matter how this turns out.

Not that he doesn't want Dean—because boy, does he.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” Not quite what he'd expected, but Cas decides he can work with it.

He shuffles side to side. “Because I didn’t want to be different. You talked with me like I’m normal. I mean I can’t do anything without my own sister prefacing each meeting with ‘this is Cas, he’s face blind so don’t be angry if he doesn’t recognize you in the future.’ And the worst part? I can’t even describe her to you.”

“Cas…” Dean relaxes a bit, but Cas is on a roll here.

“I could turn around right now and I wouldn’t be able to spot you out of a lineup. There is nothing remarkable about you I could identify and say: there, _that_ is Dean.”

“So you mean I’m not just another pretty face?”

Cas fails to see the humor he can hear in Dean’s voice. “Dean, I can’t see your face. All the parts are there—your eyes, your nose, your mouth, but my brain is wired differently. It can’t see them as a collective.”

“So that day, you legitimately didn’t know it was me?” Dean shifts awkwardly from one foot to the other. He’s more leaning with the mop instead of holding it in a death grip.

“I didn’t, and it’s my fault, and I’m sorry. You’re right, I should have told you.”

Dean nods. He seems to contemplate for a long moment, one hand rubbing at his chin as he looks anywhere but at Cas. “Okay,” he finally says.

“Okay?” Cas repeats. He hadn’t expected it to be so anti-climactic. Now he just wishes he knew where they stand. “Is that it?” he asks. “Just okay?”

“No,” says Dean. “I'm still pissed off. I mean, I can't just turn it on and off like a switch.” Cas feels his stomach sink, all for naught. “But I'd like to try and get over it,” Dean finally amends. “Can I call you?”

 _Oh_. Cas nods quickly. It's more than he'd hoped for at the very least.

That's that—or is it? Cas has no idea, which turns into awkwardly standing there, staring at each other for at least five minutes with six failed attempts at starting up another conversation. Except that neither of them knows what to talk about now.

Should he stay? Go? Bring up the fact that it was his nephew who got him out the door and over here?

“Aw, to hell with it,” Dean says before Cas can so much as finish his own thought. The mop sloshes in the bucket as Dean lets it go and crosses the space between them. His arms go around Cas roughly, tugging them together, one hand at Cas's shoulder and the other around the back of his neck.

Dean pauses, just a hair's breadth between their mouths, and Cas can feel his breath on his lips, slightly parted. Lashes bat and eyes search. Cas himself closes the distance.

It's not the best kiss in the world, too awkward and too unpracticed between people who barely know each other. It doesn't steal Cas's breath away or make his knees go weak. But that's alright; there'll be plenty of time later.

He hopes for dates, dinners, lazing on the couch watching their favorite movies. His thoughts are too hazy for anything less simple and he smiles, making it difficult to keep connected, but somehow they manage. One kiss turns into two and then three. Their lips go dry until one of them—Cas is pretty sure it's him—is brave enough to wet both of them. Then Dean breaks away with a laugh. 

He'd be happy enough just to keep doing this for the next few minutes, hours, days. But just as they're about to close back in, the klaxons sound overhead in a terrible cacophony and then a droll voice sounds through the speakers. “Rescue Thirteen, man with broken leg trapped in tree. 1218 Ponderosa Circuit. 1218 Ponderosa Circuit.”

Dean moves the bucket against the wall and crosses around to the driver's side of the rescue truck. Harvelle comes jogging out not a second later and she takes her place on the other side just as the vehicle comes to life. She's hurriedly writing the address in a memo book.

Cas backs against the wall next to the bucket, flattening himself so he's not in the way though he's really not anywhere near the rescue truck. He gets one last look, one last wide smile from Dean, craned forward so Harvelle isn't in the way.

“I'll call you, Cas?” Dean asks, like he's not too terribly sure about the answer. As if they hadn't just spent the last five minutes attached at the mouth and Cas can't still feel the sensation of warm skin under his fingertips.

Cas laughs once, breathily, like someone's just punched all the happiness from his lungs. “I’d really like that.”

“Rescue Thirteen responding,” Harvelle says into an onboard radio, pretending she's not listening. She flips a switch and the sirens start as the truck pulls out onto the street amidst the lessening traffic.

Cas watches it go until it's too far down the street to see and he's left all alone in the bay of the fire station. The quiet echoes around him, but nothing can ruin his good spirits now. He returns his rosary to his pocket and shuffles to the back, grinning at the ground as he makes his way out to the parking lot.

 

 

He's just sitting down to dinner some two hours later with a smiling Gabriel and Anna when he gets two texts back to back. Normally he doesn't check his phone when he's eating—and messy spaghetti, at that—but he can't help himself just this once.

_Dean: Saturday. Six. Burgers?_

_Dean: I'll wear a fucking nametag._

 

THE END

 


	10. Prosopagnosia Sources

[Prosopagnosia Awareness Campaign](http://prosopagnosiaresearch.org/awareness/campaign)

[Visual Prosopagnosia](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vwCrxomPbtY)

[LOL Prosopagnosia](http://lolprosopagnosia.tumblr.com/page/11)

[Living with Face Blindness](http://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2013/09/living-with-face-blindness/279898/)

[What It’s Like to Be Face Blind](http://www.huffingtonpost.com/mary-k-moore/face-blindness_b_1543482.html)

[Living with Face Blindness: Who Are You, Again?](http://www.npr.org/2010/11/13/131267727/living-with-face-blindness-who-are-you-again)

[Facial Recognition Test](http://www.medicaldaily.com/do-you-have-prosopagnosia-facial-recognition-test-evaluates-how-well-you-remember-faces-275242)

[Seven Signs and Symptoms of Prosopagnosia](http://www.humanuniqueness.org/do-you-suffer-from-face-blindness-seven-signs-and-symptoms-of-prosopagnosia/)


End file.
